The Mayfield Healing Process
by maya295
Summary: post 5.24 "Both Sides Now": focuses on House in Mayfield. How he tries to detox, how he copes with the loonies, what he hopes for... However, to stay true to his deepest wishes, the storyline will definitely be 'Huddy'. Need proof? check the rating... :-D
1. Prolog: The Breaking Point

**_Disclaimer: I don't own anything regarding House, md the tv show... it only belongs to the brilliant talented people who created it, whom I thank for that! _**

**NOW ABOUT THE STORY:**

**this fic focuses on House in Mayfield. AND ONLY THERE... H****owever, TRUE TO HOUSE'S DEEPEST WISHES (revealed by his delusion at the end of season 5), this fic IS a "Huddy" fic... showing how being in Mayfield helps him realize what Cuddy means to him... and Cuddy, though not in Mayfield, will still be a character and she will appear during the storyline... and at some point in the story, the fic will become M-rated... maybe even sooner than you think... :-)**

_**it will also introduce a new character, a psychiatrist, who will have "shrink sessions" with House, helping him deal with his issues. so this will be about WHAT HOUSE THINKS. how he adjusts to his "new life", how he copes with the loonies, the contrainst, the rules. what he feels about detox. What he hopes for, what he fears...**_

_**except for the prolog (and one or two chapters) this will be written from House's point of view.**_

**__****just one more thing! **there's something I want to share with you while you read this. because House, in my opinion, is strongly connected to music. so I want to link every chapter with a song. I think music is a gold mine when it comes to express feelings. so the song will give you the atmosphere of the moment, conveyed by the music itself as much as by the lyrics. (**you can listen to it, before, during or after having read the chapter. or you can choose to not listen to it! just know that it's there. accessible with a link that I will put at the end of each chapter...)**

**Enough said now! time to let you read now!! I hope you'll enjoy it...**

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**THE MAYFIELD HEALING PROCESS**

**PROLOG** **- Saturday, May 16th - The Breaking Point - ["_I should never have left him alone"_]**

Cameron and Chase's wedding party must be in full swing right now, she thinks. But she isn't there. She left. She had to. The atmosphere was becoming too heavy and she was tired. Tired of pretending, tired of smiling those fake smiles to people she didn't even know. People she didn't even care for. The wedding was beautiful though. The sun was shining. The bride was glowing in her white dress. Displaying the perfect image of happiness. Living for real the exact dream she would never have for herself…

And now, she's home. Alone and weary. She has put Rachel to bed and she's waiting. Wilson said he would call her, so she's sitting on her couch and she's waiting, drinking some wine. Once in a while, she rubs her face with the back of her hand to wipe away a tear. Tears flow freely. She doesn't even try to hold them back. They've been flowing since the moment she has left him with Wilson. A silent exchange of glances, nods and he had understood everything. She was so relieved to have him in that very moment, to help her get through this. At first, she wanted to deal with that herself. She wanted to be the one who would have taken care of him. But there were reasons why she couldn't. Reasons she would painfully learn later. Because, as much as she wanted to be there for him, it was not the right thing to do. Not now. Anyone but her. For his sake. The most important thing anyway was for him to go there. Take care of himself. Heal. Get better. Deal with those issues he had. With people. With emotions. With _her_…

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_Are you ok?_ She had asked him, and the first time it was a genuine concern of course, but almost tainted with reproach. All those games he played with her were getting old and she was sick of being his favorite target, every time he was confronted with an emotion he was incapable or refused to deal with.

He wanted to make her angry and he had. She was angry. But no, the truth was she was hurt. How could he have done that? Shout about an intimate moment they had shared such a long time ago. Why now? That had made no sense. Somehow she had always protected him, defended him, put herself at risk for him because she believed that, despite his bad demeanor and his provoking attitude, he would always RESPECT her. But that? No. That was beyond everything. It was as if he had thrown a memory they had been almost tenderly keeping just for themselves into a trashcan. As if he had spit in her face.

_You're fired_. What other choice did she have? She had NO OTHER choice. But it had felt like a sharp knife piercing through her heart just saying those words. She had run into her office to hide her tears, hide her confusion. And while she was twiddling jacks trying to calm down, it had gone away. The feeling of anger. She was there, sitting, and she had been left with only a huge feeling of sadness, almost despair. Of course she could never fire him. She needed him. In her hospital. In her life. That was where he belonged. And yet, what cost would she have to pay for that?

He didn't care. He knew her weakness too well when it came time to dealing with him, and being able to "deliver" her threats. That's why when he had shown up in her office, just right after her, she was sure he had come here to play with her. Mock her. Because he knew she would never mean what she had said for real. Yes, maybe he looked a little ill at ease, that was the least he could do! But in the end, he was just here to claim his victory, wasn't he? And she was expecting it. She was ready for anything. Anything mean. The spitefulness, the escalation, that's all she was focusing on, waiting for the cruel game to begin. A cruel game he had dragged her into and forced her to play against him.

_We, not only, don't have a personal relationship, but we never could_. Did she really believe in those words she had snapped at him with scorn? Her chin was raised high and her look full of contempt when she had said that. Her voice had not choked. Yes, she had managed to say that and perfectly hide her shudder. But that was just a lie. She had only said that because she wanted him to feel hurt just like she did. She wanted to get even. But she never could tell why. Why they were playing that game. Why they were so forcefully drawn into that sickening spiral. When everything would have been so much simpler just saying it… _I want you_… _I need you_… _Stay with me_… so much simpler… just saying it…

And suddenly, they had locked eyes. His gaze at that very moment. So intense! Panicked and lost. That's when she had known something was wrong. Immediately she had felt the urge to soften, show him she was not serious. _Nothing that I haven't done a hundred times before._ Just show him. No, she was not mad at him. She just couldn't feel anger or resentment towards him. But he was elsewhere. His thoughts were turned inwards and his mind focused on some things that seemed to disturb him. He had stumbled and it was like he was not there anymore. His eyes were dull, and he looked awestruck. An irrational and violent fear had then almost instantly pervaded her. _Please, make that look cease. Please_… And she had run to him. Because eventually that's what it would always be like… and it was useless to hope for it to be different. Some things just never change…

_Are you ok?_ This time, there was not the slightest remaining trace of anger in her question. Only care. Genuine profound care. God, those eyes! How lost they were. What was passing through those eyes? She had cradled his jaw in the palm of her hand and he had gripped her shoulder, digging his knuckles into her flesh. The more she was searching in his eyes, trying to decipher what was going on, the more she had felt ill at ease, and frightened. Something was happening and it seemed to be rooted in some deep and dark places of his mind. But yet, she was almost sure this was something that had not just appeared on that day. She could have sworn it had been already slowly growing for quite a while… Maybe she didn't really know what it was but she had sensed it before, when he had come to see her in her office to ask her for sleeping pills.

_House talk to me, please._ But he was locked-in. Silent and stubborn just as always. He had merely confessed that he couldn't sleep through the nights since Kutner's death. But despite her knowing there was something else, she had no energy anymore for that. She wouldn't drag the words out of him. That was too distasteful. She wouldn't make any more excuses for always being the one who cared. She cared for him. Couldn't he SEE that she cared? No. To hell with those insuperable walls he had built to keep everyone away from him! She wouldn't be the one begging this time. She had a daughter to take care of. She had responsibilities to face. She had a life. And there was no place left for that crap anymore…

_No. I'm not ok._ His voice was wobbling. His gaze was lost in the void of confusion. He was facing her but it felt as if he was seeing through her. What was wrong? She knew it was serious. She knew it was something bad. And every second spent searching the answers inside his lost gaze had felt like an eternity to her. He was standing in front of her, here and absent at the same time, and she had started to feel a weight oppressing her chest.

_House? What's wrong? Talk to me…_ But he was mute, flabbergasted, his hand clutching her arm, holding on to her as if she was the only safety chain that could still keep him attached to the real world. And tears… tears in his eyes when finally, he had met her gaze and stared at her, questioning her, begging for forgiveness, asking for a rational explanation, praying to understand…

_Take me away from here. Take me to Wilson…_ Drug abuse? Sleep deprivation? Guilt? Alcohol? Anxiety…? A combination of all that? Oh God! Could it be possible that it was… hallucinations? Was that what it was all about? She had asked him, but he wouldn't tell at first. He only kept staring at her, so intensely that it almost made her feel uncomfortable.

_If you want me to help you, you have to tell me what it is…_ Hallucinations. Yes, that's what it was. At least, that's what he had _told her_ it was. He had said they had started not long after Kutner's death and as she had guessed, because of all the repressed anxiety, depriving him from his sleep, his rational mind had suffered a neurological crisis, causing his brain to almost make a silent seizure. Another wall built up to isolate him away from the world of the living. And now his hallucinations were his companions for the day: Amber mostly, and Kutner popping up in his mind, spreading their haunting thoughts in his brain, sucking his sanity out of him, making him lose the sense of reality… the sense of reality… She wanted to comfort him but quite oddly, something in him seemed to urge him to be far away from her. And he was not asking, he was _demanding _her to take him away, so that was what she had done: she had taken him out of her office and brought him to Wilson.

Wilson. Efficient, devoted, discreet, wonderful as always. Did House really realize what an amazing friend he had in him? They had locked the door of his office and tried to deal with this. Find solutions. House was the one wanting to be committed. She, she had tried first to talk him into accepting a better compromise. To try to go into a rather "normal" rehab facility first, but he had kept refusing. There were not many options left, he had said. He knew perfectly what he could and couldn't allow himself to do. He knew himself too well. He knew how unscrupulous he could be when the time would come to cheat about using drugs. But this time he had no choice. That's what he stubbornly kept on repeating, avoiding her gaze. No, this time was not about keeping up a good front in front of Tritter and just _pretend_ to detox. The issues at stake were too big. It concerned him as a man. As a doctor. _Him _in every single breath that he took… and the heavy looks he and Wilson were exchanging during all that conversation had just added to her utter bafflement.

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She holds on to her glass of wine tightly. Her vision is misty because of the tears that flow from her eyes and roll on her cheeks, and the salt leaves a stingy sensation on her skin and she feels angry, cursing herself for not being able to stop crying. She closes her eyes and she breathes deeply. In. And out. Slowly, until she calms down, a little. But it's only temporary and she knows it. It will come back, as soon as she will lower her guard, it will come overwhelming her again. The guilt, the fear, the sadness… She feels so awful. Will she ever be able to get rid of that feeling? It's her fault. That's what she keeps saying to herself. She thinks she should have known. Because she already had sensed there was something wrong so she keeps persuading herself that she should have known. And when she thinks back about it she can't help but think that there were clues to it. It doesn't help her at all to feel better. Actually it only makes her feel worse. Knowing that she was not here when he needed her. Knowing that she had left, turned her back on him and walked away.

And now he's on his way there. It feels like she's somehow losing him a little while he is being driven there. At least that's how _she_ feels… When was the last time she saw him? She can't remember. Three days ago? Two days ago? She didn't even print one last image of him in her mind, she forgot, she didn't know, she didn't think she had to. She was sure she would see him again… Because, she wanted to do it herself. Drive him there. She really did. Even if it had to be today, the day of the wedding. The truth was, she couldn't care less about Allison and Robert's wedding. Of course, she was happy for them, sincerely happy. But they just weren't her priority. _He_ was. So she had strongly decided that she would be the one to go. Until Wilson had come see her…

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_You can't go there, Cuddy. I will_. She had laughed. Yes, that was really a hell of a devoted friendship! _But no, thank you Wilson, not this time._ She wouldn't yield. She wanted to take care of that herself and she would. Period. Why wouldn't she anyway? Yes, why? _Tell me Wilson_. And then by the look on his face she had almost instantly known she wouldn't like the answer.

_Because, Lisa… It was not just hallucinations_. It was… it was… . And then Wilson had told her the crushing truth. Oh God! It had rendered her speechless, with a lump tightening her throat, leaving her almost unable to breathe, pangs of emotions hitting her painfully each time another question would come rushing in her mind… urging her to complete the puzzle. So… his incomprehensible little act on the hospital's balcony… that was…? Him, wanting so fiercely to make her angry… that was?... Him, asking her to… move in… that was?...

No. She couldn't believe it. Her brain had refused to process it. That was too much to bear. Too much to acknowledge as a fact. Too much. _House… Why? Why didn't you tell me that? Why haven't you come to me, before? Before everything? Before all that crap? Before you were so closed up and afraid to express your feelings? Before you turned me into someone no better than yourself, forcing me to push you away, and pretend not to care, fake indifference. Why?_

And the tears had started to flow. Unstoppable tears that had choked her whole body with violent shudders while she was desperately holding onto Wilson to keep her on her feet, to prevent her from falling, and breaking into small pieces. What a waste! What a cruel irony!

"This is my fault! I should have known. I should have…"

"No, Lisa. This is not your fault. You've done nothing wrong. It's House… it's… his way of dealing with… things… but you have nothing to blame yourself for…"

Wilson was gently cradling her, trying to soothe her but it was useless. She was already feeling the void, already feeling the 'lack' of him. And in that moment, as Wilson was trying to bring her comfort, she had only wished for one thing: to be in _his_ arms instead of Wilson's and forget about that awful nightmare, to be able to go back in time…

"I should never have left him alone." She had said between her sobs.

Somehow, she was talking to herself more than to anyone else. Referring to moments that could have been any unspecific moments, talking about a time that, of course, was the night when he had insulted her, but also about any other missed occasions they hadn't been able to seize…

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Her phone rings and she jumps at the sound of it. She was asleep, exhaustion having finally taken her away from her angst and bringing her into the safe and soothing arms of Morpheus. And the screeching sound of the phone brings her back to reality. She picks it up, still feeling a little dizzy because of both the wine she drank and her interrupted sleep. It's Wilson. There's an awful silence at first and then she hears him take a deep breath.

"That's it. He's there." He says.

And she knows there is NOTHING either one of them can add to that just yet.

"Thank you." She sighs, even if she knows it won't release her from the weight of all the confused feelings she's trying to repress, as another stream of tears start to roll down her cheeks "Goodbye Wilson."

"Goodbye Cuddy."

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**A/N**

we will enter in MAYFIELD in the next chapter and then from that moment on, House will be the one speaking... SO? do you want more...?

PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW TO LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!...

**the song for this chapter is "DESTINY" by ZERO7 - you can view it on youtube site using this code adress: .com/watch?v=INn1C6ImJKg ... ****OR you can type the name of the song in the search section of you tube **

have a nice day ~ maya


	2. Detox

_Here's the new chapter: we're now in Mayfield and this is House sharing his thoughts_

_I really hope you'll like it..._**

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****CHAPTER 1** - **Monday, May 25th – Detox - "_It's like living in f__ucking Hell"_**

That's it. I'm here. I committed myself. Wilson drove me here and during the entire journey, as miles and miles of grey dull landscapes were stretching out endlessly, I just sat in his car, looking out the window, without saying a word. What was there to say about it anyway? I lost it. I lost my mind. Little by little, like an ever so small breach nestled in a concrete wall can make a whole building collapse, I've been falling into small pieces for weeks without being able to do anything to stop the process. I lost control over my brain. I lost the ability to think straight. I lost ME. Who I am and who I want to be. And that also includes my most secret and unsaid thoughts. That includes my wishes, my hopes and what I've been clinging on to for months. For years actually. Because I lost _her_ too. I thought I had her, I thought I'd finally been able to make a step towards her. I thought we had connected. But no. That too is all gone. Gone with the cruel realization that everything, EVERYTHING was NOTHING in the end. And that's worse than waking up after a dream, more damaging than experiencing a hallucination. Because it was SO palpable. SO real. SO good. And it's gone. I never had it. Never lived it for real. It was only in my brain. Over which I lost control… and _this_, is what drove me to the close edge of insanity. Now she knows. Wilson told her and she cried. That's what he said. She cried. Because of me. Because I hurt her. Again.

So really, what was there to say about it? …

I had to go to that place. Not just check into rehab. That is crap. Rehab would have failed. I had to do it the hard way. I have no choice. It's either that or be dead. Oh but no, I'm not talking about suicide. I'm not talking about killing myself. I'm not a coward, or a brave man, choose your version of the act. I just can't do it. I'm doomed to be down here. I should have died a long time ago if I weren't. So where does that leave me? That leaves me dead, but with a beating heart. Cool thing right? But not so cool, after all. Because believe me, what I'm living now is worse than real death. Yes I'm flesh and bones and all that. But WHO I am. WHAT I think. HOW I think. Everything WAS in there, in my head. My mind WAS my safe place. The den where I would hide every frightening thought I have, and let every other crazy one wander around freely to hoodwink everybody. Because the truth is I'm a master at putting up a good front. And I lost that…

So now, where does that leave me? …

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It's been nine days now since I'm here. And each second that flies by, I have to remind myself of the reasons why I got here. The reasons why I chose to do that. Not everyone would volunteer to mingle with the fucked up people for their own sake. That sounds crazy I know. Maybe even crazier than the reasons why I decided to go there in the first place but that's exactly why I'm doing it. It's hard and risky but it's my only safe choice. The last option I have. And I don't want to screw it up this time. I know I don't have many chances left. I'm kinda placing my last bet here, hoping for the deal to be merciful with me. I'm here because I want it to end. The lies, the pretences, the games. I want to be _me_. I want my mind back. I want to be the man I was before.

And I want her.

But I won't get her until I have gotten my mind back. I know she won't even consider I'm worth the try if I don't, because I screwed it up too much this time. And I need to fix this. So I'm here and that's it. The minute I stepped in here, they took my ghost shaped body to an office where they made me sign hundreds of forms saying I would obey the rules. THEIR rules. I took a pen and I signed. There too, I had no choice. If I bend the rules, it's over: they will throw me out. And if I end up being thrown out, with only me and my cheating mind to deal with it, I'm dead. Dead with a beating heart. So I don't want to question their rules. I can't put up with the risk. I've always broken the rules. And I've always had a good purpose for doing it. But this time my goal is ME, and for MY own good I have to do as I'm told. That's why I signed, without reading. And after that, I listened to them while they recited their little refrain: No visitor the first two weeks. No external phone calls either. And no contact with the loonies until I'm done; "done" which means until I'm fully and completely weaned off my opiate dependency.

_Yeah sure_ I said, _let's get this party started! Let's detox…_

This is my first goal. The first step I need to take. I will never be able to wash my brain and clear it from the crap that fills it if I don't get clean. First thing first… so I let them take me to a room. _My_ room! The thing is, when you walk in that kind of place, you don't need a lot of details to realize you're not in a palace. My room doesn't deserve to be called like that. In that case I would rather refer to it as a box. A cage. A cell. Anything but a room. My room is a 10 feet square nightmare. There is nothing there. NOTHING. Just a chair and a table, a bed and a pan. Yes, a pan, kindly provided for you to puke in it instead of on the floor, which would give the cleaning staff some extra work they wouldn't really enjoy, would they? They brought me there and they left me. And then, they locked me in that box. I knew they had to, since that goes with the early stage of detox. You have to be carefully ostracized, you know, _for your own good _kinda bullshit, but let's be honest, it's safer to be locked, because the truth is the minute you start feeling the first symptoms of coming off you want to smash down that damn door and run away.

Detox? You want to know how that feels? Let me explain it to you. The first effects of detox begin twelve hours after the last take: it starts almost gently with a little mydriasis, which means your pupils dilate, it doesn't hurt, it just alters your vision a little and then your eyes become watery but as the hours pass, you start sweating like a pig, and anxiety spreads inside your shuddering body and clutches your chest, making you feel as if someone were squashing your ribs with a nutcrackers. But wait until it gets better because when you hit the first twenty four hours, then you start experiencing insomnia, tachycardia, abdominal cramps, diarrhea, fever and vomiting, hence the pan. Yes, the second day, that's when you're happy to have a pan. But that's still nothing yet. Because then, the myalgia begins. Myalgia? A fucking Greek term to say you have MUSCLE PAIN. Yes! Pain in your muscles… isn't it ironic? Because the reason why I started to take those drugs in the first place was because I was IN PAIN. And now that I'm withdrawing from the pills, I'm invaded with pain. EVERYWHERE. It means not just in my bum leg, which always hurts. NO. It means _anywhere else_. And that pain, you want to know how it feels? It's excruciating. It's the kind of pain you can't divert your mind from. It's a throbbing nerve-shattering pain, the one that makes you want to tear your limbs off your body. So yes, the second day is the day when you're happy to have a pan but it's also the day when you're happy that they have put bars to your window, because if you could, you would jump through it. Just to make the pain cease, once and for all.

Detox? You want to know how that feels? It's like living in fucking Hell!

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There's a man, a male nurse, and he brings me my pills. Not my Vicodin… Hah! I could always wish! No. I don't have Vicodin here. Well maybe _they_ have, they surely do. But not for me. It's over. There's no one here who can potentially become a "Voldemort" for me and slip me some pills… The staff here is incorruptible. They must have been trained somewhere in a special camp for non human heartless medical staff. You can beg them, you can cry, you can threaten them, shout, they never… EVER yield. Have I tried? Of course I have! In the beginning, like anyone else in pain would have done. But NOT just like _any_ drug addict would have done… because I'm in pain and it's for REAL! I've not been popping pills during all those years _JUST_ for the high! All right ok, I might sometimes have taken one or two extra tablets for the pleasing sensation of floating away from reality but most of the time I NEEDED it. And it's HARD to stop taking them like that. It's… frightening… it's like closing your eyes while you're driving a bike… for a second, or two… the breathtaking sensation of losing control, leaving it up to whatever higher power to decide… I know that feeling. I've tried it before… It's frightening but it's the kind of fear that's also thrilling, the one you like to experience because it's cool. Except this time, it's anything but cool. Because here, you can't re-open your eyes. You can't have your power over yourself back. Once you're in here, you close your eyes and you lose control for good. Because THEY decide. Not you. You don't ask them to give you something you need. They don't give a shit about what you need, even less about what you _want_. Because they know what you want, and you sure do too, don't you? You want your pills. That's what you want. When you're detoxing there's not many more things you can think about. It's always about your pain, how to soothe your pain, your dose, swallowing your dose, your pain, how your fucking throbbing pain eats you away while you don't have your dose… so it's pretty much the same refrain all the time. But they don't care. They have a special program for you and that's the only thing they follow: The Program. They enter in your room and give you a quick side-glance like they would do to an ugly dog at the pound and they "feed" you with your detoxing dose. Two tablets of Naltrexone to block the effects of withdrawal symptoms. 50mg of white powder lie to trick my brain into thinking it still has its dose of pain killer just as it used to having when I was taking Vicodin. _Was taking_… Have I really stopped taking them? Can I talk about my addiction in past tense? Is this one time the good one? … My male nurse's name is Joe. He could make a real nice drug dealer. He has the name for it and the teeth too. Wow! Joe's mouth is really something. It looks like he's been chewing rocks or maybe just slammed into a big one. I tried to give a better look at it once but he stepped away and grunted. Joe doesn't want me to check his teeth. Joe doesn't care. He's here to give me my pills. Period.

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I hate to say that but… it's been nine days now… and the fact is… the fact is I'm starting to tremble less. Oh but don't throw a party for me yet, because I'm not saying I don't tremble. I still do. And I puke too. And I'm in pain. But I have to admit it… it has died down a little. It's no longer excruciating… it's… bearable… I don't know. I mean, I know of course that it's a rational medical process and it can be explained in a very scientific way. I know all that. I'm a doctor dammit! But… it's still strange… I guess I wasn't expecting that. All those years, I've convinced myself and others that it was a foregone lost game to even try to detox, because I needed my pills and today I can sometimes spend maybe one hour or even two without thinking about Vicodin. My obsession slowly subsides… But it's not over. I'm not done. I'm not "good to go" yet… For now, I feel like I've been numbed, I feel like my brain is slow. I feel like I can't think… I look out the window of my room, beyond the bars and down to the garden and I see the light of day. And people walking on the grass, sitting on benches. And everything seems to go in slow motion. Am I still me? Have I changed? Will I be the same after I'm out of here? …

At some point, after I took the first real hard step of detox, they have unlocked my room which means I'm free to go out now. I'm free to step out of my cell. So that's what I do. I hang around. I've started doing that a few days ago. Two or three maybe. I first walked down in the hallways, just pacing aimlessly. And I came across really odd people. Hell! There's a real bunch of awkward loonies in here! And they all have that special thing in their look, in the way they stare at you and ask you everything their sedative induced half comatose state prevents them from uttering out loud. People in the asylum are special. Because wow! They're so screwed! Like no one would ever wish his worst enemy to be. But they're just there, hanging around, gathering together in corners, sitting down and twiddling God only knows what, and they laugh. They laugh loudly, in an almost creepy way. They live their little fucked up lives in a world totally outside the real world, the one they will probably never be able to return back to… but they don't need to know that, they don't. So whenever I walk past one I look at them right in the eyes and I smile.

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Today is Monday. And today's a sunny day. So I decided that I could try going outside this time, instead of just pacing in the hallways. So I did. I'm sitting alone on a bench in the park and I stare blankly in front of me. I try to imagine what my life is now. And what it will be after, when I leave this place. When I can be a doctor again… And I think about her. Actually I think about her all the time. Her hand, on my jaw on that day in her office. "_You're fired._" That's what she told me… but I know she didn't mean it. I know she would never do it for real. She can pretend all she wants, I'm not that naïve. Everybody has their drugs and I'm hers. Me and my brilliant doctor skills, we make her hospital run. So she can't get rid of me. I'm a world class diagnostician. I'm the best. People come from all over the world to see me. Some people even almost died to have a chance to see me… because I can solve cases that no one else can. Because I recognize the mechanisms of a disease while everyone else is still trying to select which symptoms is relevant. I see ahead, beyond the logic of common people. That's why she needs me… Dammit! Because I save lives! And she needs me to do that.

But what if I had lost the ability to do that?

What if that particular gift I have was only the result of my drug fed brain? No. It can't be. I can't let it be. I'm a doctor. I'm a diagnostician. That's who I am. Before anything else. And if I lose that, there's no point in being the rest of me. I'd be worthless as a man. I'm not even a good friend… Who would want me if I were _just_ a man? God! Those thoughts in my head!… It's like they're travelling at the speed of light. It's electrifying. I can almost feel my synapses connecting together and sending message through my brain. I feel dizzy, or is it the sunlight that hits my face and makes me squint? I close my eyes and mechanically I cover my face with my hand, and I rub my eyelids with my fingertips, trying to wash away the stressing flow of thoughts inside my head. I need to think less. I need to focus my mind on positive things… positive things… But I can't think of anything good right now. Fuck! I'm in an asylum surrounded by nut-jobs and male nurses with creepy teeth… What kind of positive thoughts can I focus my mind on? I take a deep breath and open my eyes again and curiously, there's suddenly no sun anymore. I look up swiftly and my gaze meets the cause of this sudden shadow on me. 5'6. Light chestnut shoulder-length hair. Probably blue eyes. Thirty something. Curvy… I cringe. I don't like that. That, just smells like trouble. Yeah, because I forgot to tell about this little detail, which has its importance in here and helps you to split up people into two categories: the ones with and the ones without. And she, definitely belongs to the first category, _the ones WITH_… Because she wears a coat…

"Hi Dr House. How do you do?" She says, reaching out a hand to me. "I'm Anna Miller. I'm a psychiatrist."

_What did I just say?_ Trouble.

I stare at her. Actually, I'm more like trying to look past her, as if I was just seeing through her, and of course I'm conspicuously ignoring the hand she's putting out to me. She holds it up in the air for a few more seconds and she takes it back, not at all embarrassed, as if she was well used to this deflecting gesture from her patients. She smiles instead, reassuringly.

"How are you?" She asks me.

What's that crap? Are we in the middle of a nice little bonding chit chat that I'm not aware of? She stays there, standing in front of me, with her best warm smile. I'm sure she practices that one in front of her mirror every day. I'm getting annoyed.

"I don't want to see a shrink." I say curtly before she gets any kind of wrong impression about me.

"I assume you know that seeing me is part of the healing process here in Mayfield, so you and I should meet." She replies in a calm, non arguing voice.

"I don't give a shit about your process!" I say with a voice that starts to get filled with anger.

Fuck! I've come here to sit on a bench and be quiet! I've come here not to be disturbed. I've come here to _forget I was here_. And she, is doing nothing more than spelling it out loud for me. It's like she was wearing a placard saying: "Doctor House, you FAILED. You're now in Mayfield, a psychiatric hospital because you lost your mind." I don't like her. I don't like how perfectly empathic and gentle she seems to be. I hate dealing with this kind of people. They just make it harder to push them away. But I'm not going to play nice with her just because she smiles.

"I just want to detox and be clean. That's all. Then I'm out of here." And to make it even clearer for her to understand, I'm standing up as if I was going to leave. "I've not signed for the grand slam" I add, "so save your psycho crap for those who really need it. I'm sure if you give it a good look, you'll be able to find some real good material around here without difficulty."

She grins. Very spontaneously. Quite sincerely, she grins. She gives me a nod and she turns her heels and then walks away. After three or four steps, she turns around and looks back at me, the remnant of her previous smile still lingering on her lips.

"You know it's exactly when I meet people like you that I'm glad I have chosen to become a psychiatrist. And I'm sure you'll find it to be as fun as I do once we start our sessions together, Doctor House. So I'll meet you tomorrow at ten am. Until then, have a nice day and a good night."

Damn! I think I may have smiled, watching her leave. And then, Bobby the retard walks past me and he starts giggling foolishly.

"uh-uh… Anna… Hmmm… she's … mmmm niiiice!" He says with his eyes almost popping out of his head.

"Yeah sure! But don't get little Bobby too excited about it though, silly pervert" I grumble giving him his genuinely dense stare back, which makes him laugh even more loudly before he goes away, scratching frenetically "little Bobby" with both his hands.

I've been here for nine days. Nine days. And nine nights. I've started to detox. But this is just the beginning.

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**A/N**

_this story means a lot to me, for many, many reasons so I REALLY need to HEAR from you to know if you want me to carry on with it..._

_PLEASE IF YOU READ: LEAVE A REVIEW..._

_THE SONG FOR THIS CHAPTER IS **"Captain" by Dave Matthews Band** (from "The Lillywhite Session" album) _

_you can find this song on YouTube with the following link (just the end of it since we can't add proper complete links here without them being deleted...so of couse you have to add the "http://" thing and the "youtube" thing too BEFORE) _.com/watch?v=9ckdu7AnK1Q

_have a nice day ~ maya_


	3. Morning Call

_I hope you'll still enjoy the ride._

_Have a nice day ~ maya_

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~~ **CHAPTER 2 – Tuesday, May 26th – Morning Call -** "_I'm sure Joe likes it __when I sound pissed." ~~_

6.30 am.

You can't sleep properly in this joint. Each time I finally close my eyes and relax a little, Joe enters in my room to bring me my substitute meds. It's so systematic that I can't help but give a quick glance at the ceiling and check in the corners to see if they haven't set cameras to spy on me, just so they can sadistically detect the least appropriate moment to send someone to barge in… Of course, in the beginning, I tried to send Joe away, because I'd rather continue sleeping than wake up at dawn just to swallow some pills that'd only remind me of my miserable condition. I tried to explain that to him nicely. Then less nicely. Then really not nicely at all, since his obvious refusal at being cooperative was getting on my nerves. But it was pointless. Joe has a mission which consists in delivering meds and that's what he does. At 6.30am sharp, each morning, right after a useless knock on my door, since it's only designed to let me know that he IS COMING IN and NOT politely asking permission to do so, Joe steps in and chants his morning hello to me.

"'Morning Greg! I'm Joe. I'm bringing you your pills. How are you today? Did you sleep well?" In a toneless voice, he reels off his little spiel, which is the same every day, even the part when he's telling me his name – maybe in case I'd been brainwashed the day before and I had forgotten everything… I don't know. I find this to be utterly fascinating.

Joe doesn't really talk. It's more like he's reciting words actually, almost like a robot. Sometimes I wonder if he hasn't tape-recorded his message and then just move his lips in sync to act like he was saying it live. I think I even did check once to see if his mouth's movements were matching the sounds of the syllables. Then, of course, it's needless to say that Joe asks you questions but doesn't give a shit about what your answers are. For that, it'd first require him to listen, which he doesn't, so the fact is, you can be in great shape, or fucking bad, or about to die… Joe doesn't blink an eye. He just stands there, in the middle of the room and waits until I get up and limp towards him to retrieve my dose from the little plastic cup he's handing over to me.

At 6.30am.

I get up. Well naturally! What other choice do I have? I have none! So I drag myself towards Joe. For a brief but yet timeless moment, we swap our morning cranky vibes through a very powerful glare (each for specific, personal and obviously different reasons) and then, here we go! We're ready for the little meds ritual!

I take the cup. I let the pills slide inside my palm. I give the cup back to Joe. He checks inside the cup to see if the pills aren't still there. Why? Don't ask… since he can see the pills are now INSIDE my hands… I put the pills into my mouth. Joe pushes his tray, on which lies a glass filled with water right underneath my nose. I give him a challenging look and instead swallow the pills dry in one swift backward tilt of the head. Then I stare at Joe, to show him I've been a good boy, but because of some strong, and unnecessary, trust issues he has (that maybe landed him his job though), I have to open my mouth widely and stick out my tongue in case I have some secret, extra, pipe in my throat that would divert the pills from my stomach, and at the same time would securely hide them away until I'd be able to spit them out when he's gone. So, when Joe's absolutely certain that I have indeed swallow the pills, he usually does something odd with his mouth, which, only because it's him, you could call a smile, but in any other case would be a good motive to call an ambulance or cry for help.

And that's how I've been starting my day, every goddam day of the week, for the last ten days.

Once Joe has made sure everything went really smoothly like it should, he wastes no time staying there for any reason, since he's obviously not a chatty kind of guy, and practically runs out of the room instead, as if he were suddenly remembering he had a train to catch. Then, just when he's about to leave, he conveys with his warmest goodbye, but with his back to me.

"Bye! Have a nice day." He mumbles unconvincingly with his tape-recorded toneless voice.

As to me, that's usually the moment when I feel the need to clarify one or two small details before he steps out of the room and leaves for good. I know this is absolutely pointless but the impulse is itchier than a bug bite, so I just can help it.

"I know your name is Joe!" I shout. "I think I'd gotten that right when you said it the first time… And oh! Since you asked, I'm fine. And I WOULD HAVE slept well IF you wouldn't have come so early. So please, you want to be the coolest guy in this joint? Try showing up later tomorrow, ok?"

I'm sure Joe likes it when I sound pissed. And I'm really trying my best not to disappoint him actually. Because it's part of our little ritual. I've been here for ten days now and I already started to set my little habits. Naturally, Joe doesn't bother turning around and he bothers even less about answering, but I'm pretty sure he waits for my little speech. I noticed he was imperceptibly slowing down his pace and almost pausing at the threshold so he wouldn't miss it. I can even picture his smile. Toothless but beaming.

And this is it. Once I've been awaken outrageously early, I had my pills, and Joe and I socialized a little, the next logical thing I'm expecting is for him to leave. But this morning, most unexpectedly, Joe does something he never does and which utterly surprises me: he stops before he walks out the room and he turns around to face me. I'm quite taken aback by this startling move (or I'd rather say "non-move") and I have no other choice than to suspect it may be that we have now reached another higher level of Joe's inexplicable and irrational lack of trust in mankind so, stupidly (and anyway not really knowing what else to do) I open my mouth widely, with my fingers stuck inside my cheek to show him that I did swallow the pills.

Joe represses a smile. Gee! I swear he just did! What is it then? If it's not about the pills, what does he want and why does he stand there, instead of leaving like he should and does every morning? I remove my fingers out of my mouth and squint at him quizzically. We look each other up and down for a few fleeting extra seconds and then he grins fondly at me. Oh my God! Don't tell me Joe's a fag and he's hitting on me! I'm suddenly feeling nauseous…

"What?" I ask, a little bit more unnerved than necessary, ready to give him a good punch in the jaw if he dares come near me.

"You're seeing Dr. Miller today." He says, still displaying his disgusting little smile.

"And what?" I snigger "You want me to tell her you need to reschedule your next appointment?"

He smartly ignores my little sarcasm and shakes his head.

"That's a good thing." He simply answers.

I'm speechless. What on earth is that supposed to mean?

"Oh please Joe! Don't tell me you're buying that crap?" I exclaim, showing him how appalled I am with a real good shocked stare.

"Every patient here has some personal issues that they need to address for different reasons." He recites with an inspired look on his face. "Psychotherapy helps those looking for answers. This is part of our process."

I can't repress a mocking chuckle because this is just too good and almost too easy.

"Oh-oh, look who's taking evening classes to go up through the ranks and quit his miserable and unfulfilling nurse status! Or… could it be that you bang the shrink and then have educational psychobabble chit-chats on the pillow right after?

Joe's mouth drop open and I take advantage of this favorable opportunity to give it a glance, which gives me the insight I just needed to confirm my first hunch about Joe's unforgettable smile.

"Nah…" I add with conviction "You know Joe, pal, I don't want to ruin our budding friendship, but I think it's safer if you don't hump her actually… Safer for her I mean…"

Unfortunately for me, it seems that Joe doesn't value our friendship that much. I don't have time to explain myself any further, then the next thing you know, he's trying to jump at my throat with an ugly wrinkle on his face, showing that my little remark really upset him. Fortunately for me though, his tray seems to be giving him trouble in the process. But before he can figure out that it would be much easier to put it down to free his hands, I club him with my cane on the knee cap. I don't want to take any chances. The effect of surprise makes him lose his balance for a split second during which, the glass of water on the tray dangerously sways before it slides to the edge, then goes over and falls on the floor, splashing water everywhere. Then the tray slips out of Joe's hands and falls down as well, on top of the puddle. At that point, I think it kinda sets him thinking straight again because he glares at me but he freezes, definitely giving up on his fist fight idea.

"Hey! Are you crazy?" He exclaims, with a genuine display of disbelief.

I roll my eyes and make an exaggerated dramatic face.

"Duh? Do you know WHERE we are?"

"Yeah, right… Look what you've done! You need to clean this now." He mutters, looking down at the puddle underneath him.

Ignoring his comment, I stand in front of him, following my earlier point. Maybe it's not that obvious for him yet, but luckily for him, I have my own sense of priorities and I think he's going to thank me later for that.

"You know Joe, it's amazing what a mouth can tell you." I start, trying to catch his attention. "Kinda like the window to a store. You look at what's displayed inside the window and you instantly know if you would want to enter the store and even purchase something in there…"

Joe looks up at me and by the look on his face I can tell he surely thinks I haven't landed here by chance.

"What are you talking about?" He asks, just a little louder than he should have if he weren't giving a damn.

"Let's say the store window is your mouth," I start to explain, "The problem is, what's in there is not fashionable. It's pretty scruffy, to say the least. Tattered clothing, wobbly dummies… And yet, it's just the window… so I can only assume that _inside_ the store, it really has to be … uhm… messy, you know… hallways probably crawling with cockroaches…"

Ah, the power of metaphors! There's nothing like it! Now, I got his attention. So I can do my good deed for the day.

"Have you noticed 'little Joe' was… what's the word?… _itchier_ than usual lately?"

He doesn't keep me waiting for an answer.

"Hey!" He exclaimed in a sudden extremely virile menacing tone, pointing a warning finger at me "You're not my doctor! I'm not talking with you about…"

And he stops because of course, finishing this sentence would be quite embarrassing now that he has almost confessed I was right. He looks down, pretending to focus on the puddle again.

"You have an STD." I say, quite proud of myself, I must confess, "probably for a few months now. And by the rotten aspect of your gums, I'd say it'd been left untreated, which is why your immune system started to weaken, allowing any kind of minor infections to enter your mouth and spread inside your body."

As I speak, Joe unconsciously covered his lips with his hand, and I notice he's shaking a little.

"That's ok! You're not going to DIE!" I add, theatrically widening my eyes out noticeably. "Well, not if you take antibiotics during the next two weeks, that is. And I'm pretty sure _your_ doctor will be happy to prescribe them for you if you ask him nicely."

All of a sudden, coming from farther down in the hallway, we hear a loud complaint, which sounds like the growl of an angry bear, and breaks the perfect meditative silence of this moment. But it barely jolts Joe out of his shocked stupor. However, it looks like some of the loonies here really DO need their pills.

"I think you better finish your morning drug dealer's tour before some of the nut-jobs start to smash their doors down if they don't get their dose" I tell Joe, who, in my humble opinion seems less and less concerned by his patients' well-being but more and more inefficiently static since I cleared the mystery of his scratchy crotch for him.

He finally straightens up and tries his best 'everything's under control" face, but as it never ceases to amaze me, I notice that it's quite hard to do so, especially when you've just been bared in front of a stranger, even if it's only metaphorically speaking.

And then, to my extreme annoyance, I suddenly think about Dr. Anna Miller, whom I'm going to see at ten this morning and who's probably already waiting for me to strip my soul in front of her and deposit it on her desk as an offertory to prove to her my devoted commitment to their fucking healing process.

But that's not going to happen.

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**A/N**

_the song for this chapter is_ **"Clap Hands" - Tom Waits** _(actually more because of the music than because of the lyrics, though quite strange... which means they could fit!) Clip on YouTube under this link: _

.com/watch?v=kNNxHnv3v6A

_next chapter as soon as I can... cuz' today was my first day back to work and september's already eating away at me..._


	4. 1st session: Pain and the Use Of Drugs

_NEW CHAPTER... and now we're diving into the real 'stuff'... no more escaping... it's time to begin to face some of the issues... at least try..._

_I hope you're enjoying this so far - please let me know what you think, cuz' really, you can't even imagine how much I need to have good reasons to carry on writing this now..._

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**CHAPTER** **3**– **Tuesday, May 26th – First session: Pain And The Use Of Drugs - ["_Shrinks think they got it all figured out, but they don't_."]**

It'd be immature to try to escape this.

And seriously, am I the kind of immature guy who would try to escape this?

Well……Yes. Obviously… I am.

So I thought about how I could make up a good reason not to go… To be honest, I thought about shoving my fingers down my throat to puke a good truckload of vomit so I could call in sick but then I chickened out because, first of all, that'd have been pointless (they don't really sympathize with puking people here)… and, second of all, IT HURTS! Been there, done that… Yeah, the constraints of methadone and the joys of friendship (or vice versa if you want…) But that's over. Damn, I'm not THAT stupid! Besides, I've already puked enough, so I figured I'd rather go, since there was no point in turning back anyway. They'd just send me their pit-bulls to make me go there and well, I thought that the faster I can be done with it, the better… And why would I care about that? I don't care about that! This is not a big deal…

To get to her office, which is in the ground floor of the administrative ward, I have to walk through miles and miles of hallways. This place is creepily huge. And of course, there are stairs everywhere. Obviously, they don't bother about cripples in here… I pass through different wards, and I come across different kinds of people. This asylum is like a town on its own. No. This asylum is a WORLD apart on its own… I limp with a strange swing, trying to adjust to the sensation in my less anesthetized leg and I wonder if I'm a part of this world. Do I fit in? Weirdos stare at me and I stare back at them. And I limp, again and again, into endless hallways and down challenging stairs…

I don't like shrinks. Shrinks are annoying. They dig and they dig and they dig. And then, where does that lead? Nowhere! They look you up and down full of themselves with that smug certainty that they will succeed in helping you. Hah! Yeah… But some people may just be helpless… I went to see one not so very long ago. Just to see. I don't know why I did this. Or what I expected to happen out of it. But I tried… Maybe I thought I could be fixed… Like a broken toy. Maybe I wanted _her_ to see I could be fixed…or change… And so what? What have I learned about myself? That I'm a big jerk? Duh! Big news! That I didn't have a thrilling childhood? God! I don't need a shrink to know that. I was there, not them!... So what was the point? How was it helping? It wasn't. The mind is like the rest of the body: sometimes, no matter how hard you try to fix it, it's too late… So I quit. And don't say, look at where it got me now? This is sh!t. I don't think they could have prevented me from landing here anyhow…

So I don't like shrinks. But… I don't fear them.

It's just that they're useless. They're like vampires. They don't care if you don't get better. They just want to feed _THEIR_ need for hearing about traumatizing dramas and shameful secrets. And man! Do they have a lot to feed on! Because let's face it: people have a LOT to conceal. People lie. They spend their lives pretending and hiding their lies behind bigger lies, burying their dirty little secrets under dirtier secrets. Until it makes them really sick. I know what I'm talking about. I have dealt with hundreds of those people. And believe me, in those cases, the real priority is not the mind. When you have a sneaky infection that eats away at your guts, or a really rare disease that could kill you at any time, you don't give a damn about feeling happy, you just need to be ALIVE that's all. Who would care about a happy dead body anyway? …

10.15 a.m.

I smile. I think I have no other choice than to go inside now. Open the door.

I twist the doorknob and I enter without knocking. I find her deeply absorbed in some writing. Probably her notes from the previous session. I wonder who that was. Well no, actually I don't. I don't care who was there before me and what kind of crap she had to listen to. She doesn't notice me at first, or at least she's doing a great job at pretending she doesn't. She keeps on writing a few more things and then finally she raises her face up to me, with the same reassuring smile she had yesterday, when she was standing before me in the park. Wow! She's trying really hard with that one! And frankly, all the more reason for me to be suspicious…

"You're late." She says, glancing at her watch and closing the notebook in which she was writing the second before.

"Yeah, well traffic… you know how it is! Oh no, wait! I guess I can't really say that since I "_live_" here now…" I underscore the world _live_ by mimicking the quotation marks with my fingers and I tilt my head to the side, smiling cynically to let her know that yes, I will be that kind of patient. I think it's only fair that we try to be straightforward with each other, if we want to spend some good quality time together, right?

She squints at me with a slightly amused grin and then she points to the armchair in front of her.

"Please sit down."

But instead of sitting like she requested, I stay on my feet and conspicuously look all around her office.

"Is there a problem?" She asks.

"Where's the couch?" I say, "I thought you'd have a couch here. You know… a red velvety one."

I give her a playful wink but she doesn't buy it. She motions me to sit down once again.

"So I guess it means no couch then uh?" I add, finally complying and taking a seat in front of her. "Well, I'm disappointed. You know, I seriously came here _just_ for the couch. I cruelly lack sleep, so I was kinda hoping you'd provide me a safe quiet place to take a nap…"

Saying this, I shamelessly slump into the armchair, which turns out to be quite comfy actually, and I rest my cane on my lap.

"Are you tired?" She inquires with concern.

She opens one of her desk drawers and fumbles into it. She takes a folder out of it and put it on the desk. Then, she opens her notebook and uncaps her pen.

"Duh! Am I tired? Toothless Joe ruins my beauty sleep, bursting into my room every morning at 6.30!! So yeah! I think you can say that I'm tired!" I exclaimed, with an unbeatable logic and an outraged look.

"Is that where everything you ever die to know about Gregory House is registered?" I then add, pointing out the folder on her desk with my chin.

"Not _everything_… but _enough_ things…" She answers with an undeniable honesty.

She smiles. So what? She just chose truth over an easy lie. Big deal! If she thinks she's going to tame me with her little strategy, she's wrong.

"Oh, and what does it say?" I test her sense of cooperation a little further, "That I'm a dangerous drug addict doctor who shouldn't treat patients?"

"No. Actually it says that you're a _brilliant _drug addict doctor who, no matter if he should or shouldn't, DOES treat patients…"

I look away. _Yeah, but that was before… and I don't know if I should or shouldn't, but the fact is I'm not treating anybody anymore now._ _Except for Joe this morning, but that was easy: he practically had "Gonorrhea" written on his gums! And he was not a real patient anyway _She stares silently at me with her eyes slightly widened out as if saying: "your turn to speak now!" but I have nothing to say. _I used to save lives. Dozens of them every year. I succeeded where others failed. And now I can't practice anymore. I screwed up and I lost my license._ She stares at me and it jolts me out of my inward reverie. I smirk.

"Why did you start to take pain meds to begin with?"

"You've just said it: because I was in pain!"

"And before that?"

"What do you mean before that?"

"Have you always taken pills only to cope with the physical pain?"

Oh-ho! Look who's trying to be smart here? I knew it was going to be exactly like that, and that's exactly why I didn't want to come. Shrinks think they got it all figured out but they don't. And now, how much more of my time will I have to waste until she understands that this isn't gonna work?

"This is bullsh!t." I say dismissively. "Why do you shrinks, always have to assume that there's more to taking pain meds than to just actually ease the pain?"

"Because pain is not just physical."

"Yeah, but mine is! I can assure you that they really TOOK a piece of muscle out of my THIGH and that it HURTS." I reach out for the button on my pants' buttons provocatively. "You want me to show you?" I ask her, undoing the button and ready to move to the zipper next.

She raises an eyebrow, just a little surprise for a split second but then she quickly regains her perfect calmly composure.

"That won't be necessary." She says.

A short but heavy silence settles in the room. But I won't break it. If she wants to talk, fine! She can! I'm not going to help her.

"How's your pain right now?" She asks with her head down, as she's focusing on her notebook, trying to make her question sound like a casual one.

She can't see me but I glare at her. I hate that. I hate that I have to talk about that when I didn't call for it myself. And I didn't. I DON'T TALK about my pain. To anyone. And, thank God! I have made myself clear enough about that throughout the years so that no one actually asks me. Because they know it'd be pointless. Because they know me. They know I won't answer. Unless it's Wilson. Because he just needs to hear it. So I give him what he needs and then he's happy. Not to hear that I'm in pain but to know that he's the one whom I'm sharing it with… And also, because let's face it, I have needed Wilson more than anyone to get my Vicodin prescriptions… so somehow, we both needed to talk about that, each for specific reasons… And then, there's _her_… I don't know how she does that but… Despite what she did… She makes it sound ok to talk about my pain with her… I mean, I look at her and I know I won't be able to lie to her about how I feel… Sometimes…

But this girl? Why would I discuss my pain with her? No. She doesn't know me. She thinks she does because she read a file reporting my medical status and now she thinks it gave her the right to ask? No. She's not my doctor. And I'm certainly NOT her patient. She doesn't have the right to know. I don't owe her anything. I don't want to share what I feel with her. I DON'T WANT to talk about my pain. My pain is painful. That's how it is. There's nothing to add to that. F*ck! I ache. Up until ten days ago, I had Vicodin to help me deal with that and now I don't have it anymore. So what does she want me to say? If you chop an arm off of someone's body, will you give them Aspirin? And then hope that it'd be enough to relieve the pain? Hell NO! Morphine even wouldn't do it. So dammit, let's cut the "pain speech" already! I'm sick of it. I don't need anyone to remind me about it. Is that what she wants me to say?...

Finally, my silence made her lift her head up. She scrutinizes me quizzically, probably trying to decipher the answer by herself, as it is now obvious that she's understood she won't get it from me.

"Opiate dependency…" She tries, changing strategy.

"Cut the crap," I interrupt her, "I'm a doctor, I know all about opiate dependency."

"Oh! And what do you know?" She asks with a slight challenging tone.

Right now, I wish nothing more than to shut her smug face up.

"I took Vicodin." I start to answer. "A combination of acetaminophen and hydrocodone. Acetaminophen halts the production of prostaglandins which otherwise cause PAIN and Hydrocodone binds to the pain receptors in the brain so that the sensation of PAIN is REDUCED. Of course you can always take Vicodin to get high, though frankly, there're better stuff than that…"

"Really?" She says ingenuously, with an amused grin.

I don't even bother to comment. Everything is already said in the look we just exchanged.

"Yeah" I mumble. "Vicodin is prescribed to ease THE PAIN, not to join Alice in Wonderland! At normal dosage, it works for moderate to moderately severe pain. Mine often being… well… none of the above. So normal dosage doesn't work for me, you see. Because my pain is more like _severely immoderate_, so…"

She's writing something down in her notebook. I stop and I gasp. The little b!tch! She just tricked me!… She noticed I stopped talking and she raises her face to me.

"Severely immoderate? …" She repeats, a small self-satisfied smile flickering on her lips.

"Yeah. Can you believe this" I say sarcastically "A big boy like me unable to deal with a mean hurting boo-boo in his leg…"

"I understand that you had to take pain meds Dr. House. But have you ever asked yourself why you were taking so many?"

"NOooo," I answer to her stupid question, widening my eyes with emphasis to show her how wrong she is, "because it'd have been irrelevant to ask myself that, since I didn't have a choice; because, it was either that or cut my leg." I then add bitterly, "And, call me stupid if you want, but I chose to keep my leg…"

"Did you ever regret you did?"

"What?"

"Keep your leg. Have you ever told yourself that maybe you should have opted for the amputation? That it'd have been less painful"

"Less painful… Yeah sure! But more lame! Which means less walking and more wheeling … So no thanks! Sorry to disappoint you Dr. Miller, but I liked my leg. I'd spent more than forty years with that leg before my infarction so I was kinda used to having it, even if it turned out to be a very bum bitchy leg in the end."

She writes. What does she write? Forty years? … Bitchy? … Lame? … God! It's long! It's boring! How long do I have to stay here? Now I want to run out of here, which in Greg House's book can only be _limp_ out of here… but I can't even do that. Because I can't leave, can I? So I think, at least, then let me have something to twiddle while I'm stuck here… I spot a cup on her desk which contains some rubber bands of all sizes. I lean forward and take a big long one and then I pull on it and wrap it around my fingers absent-mindedly. Of course she notices it, she just held her hand back almost imperceptibly while she was writing, but I saw it. And her face is tilted down but I know she is looking at me nonetheless. I sigh. Heavily. And I wait. Until she feels forced to talk. I'm good at that game. I can stay silent until it becomes so compelling that it makes a mute want to shout. So it lasts. The silence. God! She's kinda hard-headed too… We stare at each other. I pull on the rubber band, I pull and pull… and it snaps with a sharp crack. She jumps slightly in her chair at the sound of it. I smile mischievously.

"Why did you choose to commit yourself here?" She then suddenly dares me, with a defiant look.

I roll my eyes, to add a little dramatic effect to the whole situation, and then I shrug.

"Well I had tons of days off to take, and I needed to relax… I mean all that greenery plus the enjoyable company of wackos! How could I miss that? It's so refreshing! But you probably know that better than I do…"

She cradled her chin in her hands and she looks at me, right in the eyes, expressionless, not in the least bit impressed. Eventually, she manages to ruin all my fun. I stop and sigh and I look at my feet.

"Do you have a passion Dr. House?"

I frown.

"You're not easy to follow Dr. Miller… Are you sure you actually have a point? Or are we just here to entertain each other? Because if we are, then I'm starting to think that you're not so bad at it…"

"Thank you." She answers, clearly not paying attention to my gibberish though. "So? Do you have a passion, Dr. House?" She repeats.

"Hell no!" I exclaim, "Passion is a sedative they put into your honeymoon cocktail to numb you to think you made the right choice or…"

"That's all?"

"What do you mean that's all? God! That's already big enough!..."

"You think passion can only apply to people in relationships. Is that your definition of passion Dr. House?"

I squint at her. She took me off guard. And she clearly knows she just did. She waits just a little more time than needed and she leans down to write again but this time I don't like it. I don't know what she's writing but I know I don't like that she is.

"Oh come on! Are you going to quibble over everything I say? Of course not! Passion is not just that… I was trying to…"

"Be funny? Deflect?"

I look away and clench my jaw angrily. I really need to leave this room now. I don't like the game anymore.

"Dr. House," She adds in a suddenly soft voice, "there're not a million different ways you and I can do this. Either we waste both our times, which in my case, won't change many things since I'd still get paid and you'd still have to come here anyway _or_… we could try to…

"I solve medical puzzles."

Now it's her turn to squint and look baffled. I straighten up a little and give her a smug smirk.

"What? You asked if I had a passion…"

"You really like your job, right?"

"I'm good at it."

"Sure. But… do you _like_ it?"

"Some people get to live longer just because I can figure out what disease's killing them while everyone else fails just knowing it exists! So thanks to me, people go back to their little home sweet homes, pay their taxes and are even happy they do. I think the government should give me a cut of all the extra amount of taxes they earn thanks to me!"

"Do you miss that?"

"What? My share of the government's money?"

"NOoo!" She says, mimicking my earlier exaggerated pouting way of answering. "Treating people? Saving lives?"

"I don't care about saving lives! I just like to solve the puzzles."

"And that's all?"

"That's enough for me."

"But right now, you can't do that anymore. Not until you're clean… So… Do you feel anxious Dr. House? …" She asks, so carefully that it almost makes me want to burst into laughter. However, I don't know why, but suddenly I feel like I owe her a little bit of honesty.

"My job's at stake." I state. "If I fail, I won't get my license back."

"Are you afraid it might happen?"

I can't help sniggering.

"I guess I should, but it won't happen. My boss needs me too much. She'd do anything to get me my license back… She…"

I break off abruptly, surprising myself by what I just said. Is it right? Does she unconditionally wait for me to come back? Does she only wait for the doctor? Does she expect something from the man? Will she give me another chance if I don't get clean? Can I fail?

Dr. Anna Miller doesn't say a word and strangely, it's the _sound_ of her silence that brings me back to reality. I stare into her eyes and she sustains my gaze with a very intrigued look of her own.

"If it wasn't to get your job back, would you still have chosen to be committed here?" She finally asks me, with a slightly compassionate smile.

Ok. All right, fine! She just hit a spot somewhere deep inside me and she knows it. She keeps on staring at me intensely and she waits for my answer. But the questions are too big. Why am I here? What am I here for? … _Who_ am I here for? I'm just giving her her stare back, just as deep and intense as hers is, but I stay mute. I have nothing to say. At least to her.

"Whatever the reason is, I'm sure _she_'s a very good one…" She says with her head down, almost inaudibly, so she makes it uncertain for me to know she actually said that.

And if I ask, she will have her answer. Because if I make her say it twice, it would mean that I care. So I don't ask… I can't. MY secrets. MY deep inner thoughts. MY wishes… Not something I want to share. Not with her. Not now.

She gives a quick glance at the clock and she puts her pen down before leaning against the back of her chair. She folds her arms in front her chest and looks at me with a satisfied smile.

"What?" I grumble, guardedly.

"We've finished for today, Dr. House."

I widen my eyes. Gee? Really? I thought we were going to talk a bit longer.

"Wow, FI-NA-LLY!" I say, with a relief, which actually is partly fake…

"All good things come to an end." She answers, with a smile.

I take my cane and I stand up.

"Well… That was fun!" I provoke her a little.

"Wasn't it?" She says, tit for tat.

"So I guess that means now you probably want to have more fun, right?"

She nods, and an amused smile flickers on her face.

"Yeah that's what they all say, right from the first time!"

"Have a nice day Dr. House." She answers, ignoring my joke.

I don't answer. I turn my heels and I leave.

And now what? … Nothing.

I go back to my room, that's all.

* * *

**A/N**

_the song for this chapter is **Pink Floyd - "Comfortably Numb"** (from the Pink Floyd'd lp "The Wall" - an Alan Parker movie)_

_clip (with lyrics) avaulable on you tube with this search extension (all the "http://" and "www." and "youtube . com" things before, fo course if you ever want to make the link be efficient, otherwise, just look for Pink Floyd in the search section..._

.com/watch?v=1htZFVGsBMw

_ps: oh and just wanted to say that when we are approaching the moment where this fic will become M-rated -which is not so far- I'll warn you at the end of the previous chapter so that you won't get confused, trying to find it in the wrong place the next time... ok?_


	5. Pep Talk

_Here's another chapter. It's not a session, at least not with the shrink…. But yet, there's no one like "him" capable of unraveling House's complex and guarded character…_

_I hope you'll still enjoy this. thank you for the beautiful comments you've left me and everything you said about my writing which really touched me deeply. __THANK YOU!_

* * *

**CHAPTER 4 - Sunday, May, 31st - Pep Talk - **_**["He'd be devastated if I didn't let him see me..."]**_

This is it. I successfully passed the first two weeks. And since I behaved myself and haven't killed anybody so far, I earned a little reward. I can now have visitors.

If I want to…

And the question is: do I want to have visitors? Am I ready to let people from the _outside_ world come and see me in this place? And if I do, who am I ready to see? … My team? No way in Hell I'm gonna let them see me here! They don't even know I'm here… officially, I'm in rehab. And that's all. They didn't need to be filled in with the details, did they? And maybe they don't give a shit about me anyway… Who am I to them? A boss? A mentor? A peer? A drug addict? An annoying selfish jerk? A genius bastard? … Maybe I'm just nobody. They work with me but they didn't choose _me_. They're all here only because they have no other choice, that's why!

Foreman should have run away years ago. Like Chase and Cameron did… (Actually, it's more like I kicked Chase out and Cameron sacrificed herself to follow her Aussie lover, which, although she denies it of course, is nothing more than the truth…) Whereas, Foreman, he's just stuck with me, like I'm stuck with him, because he's an arrogant ass and he balled every other good option, he had elsewhere, up. But it's not something we both decided freely… Even if I know he likes it, and he knows I'm ok with it… Yes, I'm ok with Foreman being here. I'd never admit it of course, Gee! Spare me the inevitable and awkward bro hugging moment that would come out of it! … But he's a good doctor. He's complex and he never falls for the easy solution. I like that. Does he know that I like that? I think he does. It's in his smug little bastard smile when he looks at me…

Then Taub… what is there to say about short man? He fell for the attractive glitter of money. He attended Med School and ended up shoving silicone into the dangling boobs of completely depressive but insanely rich housewives. So yeah sure! He was rolling in dough! He chose the easy path and he got what he wanted. And then, he ruined it all by philandering thoughtlessly with brainless chicks. He fucked up and he deserved what he got. THAT was the good part in his career. Not the philandering, cuz' it almost cost him his marriage and well… not me either, since I tend to mess with him a lot. But it's fun and entertaining, what can I do about it? I like teasing easy prey, so what? That's not as if it was just a meaninglessly mean thing to do… Goddammit! The man needed a good kick in the ass, that's all! Now he dares to stand up to me! Now he's aware he's a doctor! Now he practices _real_ medicine…

And then well… there's Thirteen. Foreman's girlfriend. Hah! The two smartasses thought I wouldn't notice they were still together! When, seriously, I don't even know why they bothered hiding it. Who cares? Me? No… I lied. I challenged them to split but truth is I didn't give a damn. They want to swap body fluids? Then so be it! That's not my problem. My problem, which is theirs too, is my patients. And they were forgetting about that. So they just needed to land back on earth and remember what they were here for… Otherwise I'd given them less than a week before I would have found them humping bumping in the Janitor's closet! But, on the other hand, why would I be a judge to that? They probably should take the best out of it while they still can… because Thirteen, she's half dead already. And it's ironic, it's sad, it's unfair… but it's true. Everybody dies. Some day. Soon or later. And yeah, I know 'soon' is not how things are supposed to be for young smart rebel hotties like Thirteen but this is how it is. And there is nothing I, or anyone, can do to change this.

I'm the only freak who should be dead and isn't. I _accidently tried_ a million times and I'm still here. I cracked my skull open, I shove a knife into a socket, I took Alzheimer's drugs and mixed them with Vicodin, I had a bike accident, I've been shot at! … Duh! Two bullets! I was in a bus crash… where Amber died… and not me…

Not _me_…

Why am I still here? Why do I always deserve second chances? Second chances for what? Screw it up twice as much? Mess with people even more? Fuck hookers and take drugs? Be a good doctor? Save lives? Enjoy my own? Be happy? … Or try? … Pfff! Crap! I was on the bus with Amber. I could have left with her. I could have stayed on that bus. But she told me to go back and I still don't understand why? Why have I listened to her? Who do I need? Who needs me? I hurt everyone. Even the ones I care for. _Especially_ the ones I care for. So what point does it prove? What purpose does it serve?

"_Living in misery sucks marginally less than dying in it._"

Yes. I said that and I believe it to be the truth. My truth. Maybe that's why I'm still here, despite everything. I didn't put a gun to my head and blew my brain away. I didn't do what Kutner did… and I don't understand. I don't understand why he did that. It's not bravery. It's not cowardice. It's only NONSENSE. And I hate that! I hate when things have no meaning. I hate when there is no explanation. Because everything must have an explanation… So WHY? … Fuck! Did I miss something? Did I fail at recognizing a sign? Maybe I could have seen something, maybe I could have… NO. This is pointless. I fried my brain over that unsolvable question already. I spent nights, thinking and wondering, and it goes nowhere. Nowhere other than here…

Everybody dies. Some day. Soon or later. But not me. Not here, not yet. For the time being, I'm here and all I know is that it's been fifteen days and I can now have visits.

They'd asked me to put names on the visitors list. Say who I allowed to come here. So that of course they can check if it was a reliable person, and then decide whether they should indeed let that person come. I wrote Wilson. Of course, I couldn't do that to the man! He'd be devastated if I didn't let him see me… He needs that too much. He needs to take care of me: it feeds his overly motherly side. And then, I started to write another name, I wrote "C", and almost immediately, I scratched it out… But of course they didn't fail to notice.

"Who's that, Greg?" They've asked me.

"Nobody."

"Greg," they've added with an extra gravity in their tone, "is there someone in particular you don't want to see?"

"I said it was NOBODY!" I've barked, hating their condescending precaution and the way they were talking to me as if I was a moron kid.

"C" stands for her. Yes _HER_… the one I won't talk about. Because I don't share her. With anybody. She's in my head and she stays in my head. I don't know why I considered writing her name on that list. It was a stupid outburst. A pointless need. Pointless. She doesn't want to see me. I'm nobody to her. I've managed to unquestionably screw it up once and for all. I ruined my chances with her. My chances… Hah! Funny thing that I can speak about "chances" here, because the truth is, I don't even know if I've ever had one with her. I don't even know if she has just once given credit to what I was feeling. I've waited for a sign from her for so long. And I tried to give her something; act differently, so that she would see ME… But she said we had nothing. She said it was over. And what was over? What do we have to lose? Do we have 'something' together? Something that I should hold on to? Where is she now? Does she think about me, like I think about her? No… she's probably moved on. And that's ironic, because, actually we have nothing to move on from… We're just each other's missed opportunity. And I guess I shouldn't cling on to something that is nothing other than an expectation. An expectation…

So I only wrote Wilson on my visitors' list and that's it. I guess he's my only safe choice. The only one I really don't need to be worried seeing. He's going to piss me off of course, immensely, with his concern and his worried look, but in his very twisted way, he's gonna make me feel better… or at least less something, I don't know. So that counts, I guess.

I called him. Yes, because I've earned access to the phone too. I can now make phone calls. Except, I don't call anybody. Who would I call? Nobody! And anyway, it's a good thing because, phone calls? Naaah, too weird! They pretend everything's fine, they smile at you, those forced fake encouraging smiles, but they don't trust you. When you're calling somebody, you're supervised. And frankly, I'm glad I don't have a wife or some kiddos to call, because I only did it once to call Wilson and I already felt it was really a mind-blowing intimacy issue… _With Wilson_! I mean, you can't say anything, without them practically sniffing the receiver over your shoulder. What do they think? That I'm gonna call my drug dealer. Hah! Wilson, my drug dealer… funny and somehow not so untrue in its time…

So I called Wilson, to tell him to come if he wanted to, but I tried to make it short. I didn't want that guy spying on me to get any juicy details that he would then rave upon inside the medical staff lounge. So I said "Wilson you can come see me". And that's all. Well, no, to be precise, I gave the spying guy a real long provocative look and I said something like, "Hi Wilson, IF you have nothing more interesting to do, like unplugging a sentenced-to-death cancer guy or I don't know, shaving a young girl's hair, how about you come over, sit on a bench with me and watch some real funny weirdos on Sunday?…" And I hung up. I didn't even wait for him to answer, because I didn't need to. I have no doubt that he will come.

And he did.

We're in the park, sitting on my bench. Yes, _my_ bench… sounds weird I know but that's the one I'm used to sitting on now. That's who I am: the guy with the habits. We're seated and we kinda stare blankly in front of us. It's hard to find some relevant things to say. Even an easy mockery seems hard for me to come up with. I'm bent forward, my elbows on my lap and my chin inside my hands.

"How do you feel?" Wilson finally says, his eyes focusing on an imaginary point in the far distance straight ahead.

"Never been better in my entire life!" I answer with a certain extravagance to my tone.

"House! Seriously." He turns towards me to face me. Here it goes: Wilson caring Duracell bunny is on and he's not going to shut up before at least one or two hours. And I feel like a little bit of my daily routine is finally coming back to me…

"I stopped feeling like I'm chewing hydrochloric acid gums all the time… so I guess it could be considered a good sign." I finish, looking away, trying to make it sound casual.

"And your leg?"

"Still here, still bum, still useless…"

"No, I mean the pain…"

I take a deep breath, contemplating my answer to his question. How's my leg? Actually what I just said is not a lie. My leg's still here, still bum… It feels like nothing has changed, really. And yet, I don't take Vicodin anymore…

"It's bearable." I finally mutter under my breath, hoping that Wilson won't make a big deal out of it, which of course he does nonetheless.

"That's great news!" He exclaims with an exaggerated enthusiasm.

"Yeah great news… Why don't you call the local paper and tell them to add that in the summer special issue?"

"House it works! You're detoxing." He continues, completely on auto-pilot, not even paying attention to what I just said, "And you deal with your pain without your pills, something that you haven't done in years! Why can't you just simply enjoy the feeling a little?"

"It's only been two weeks. And you've just said it: I've popped pills for years. So two weeks is actually nothing."

"What is it? You're afraid you might relapse?" He asks me with a sudden great deal of concern.

"I don't know." I answer honestly.

How can I be sure that this onetime is the good one? I have no guarantee at all that it will work. And it's always like that: life gives you NO GUARANTEE that it will work. So why try? Why do people still try when they all very well know there is one good chance out of two that they might fail? What's the point? Is it because they're all just a bunch of morons who can't see that it's pointless? Is that what hope's for? Blindfold people and fool them into thinking they are right to hang on? I don't know. I don't have the answers. Wilson doesn't have the answers. It's as uncertain as the result of a poll. A hundred bucks on House getting better without his pills! Come on, people, come on! Who's gonna take the bet?

"How's the team doing?" I say, opting for a change of subject. "How many people did they kill so far? I'm sure it must be weird for them to function without their beloved boss watching their back, right?"

"Actually…" Wilson shifts uncomfortably on the bench.

"What? They killed some patients? Really? … Wow!" I chuckle, almost joyfully, quite impressed actually. "How many? Come on, shoot! Two weeks… uhmm, I'd say three… one each…"

"No. Nobody died!" He says, shaking his head.

"Then what? Why are you looking like you're about to confess a crime…"

"I didn't do anything!" He defends himself, frantically waving in hands in front of him.

"Yeah, exactly!", I'm getting slightly breathless, "Which is why you're just giving me more reasons to think it's something that I won't like to hear; otherwise you'd have been completely incapable of holding it back one more second. So for God's sake, spit it out already!"

"Cuddy made Foreman Head of the Diagnosis Department." He announces flatly, avoiding my gaze.

I want to gasp but I set my lips firmly so that he doesn't see me do that. I gulp instead and there's a giant lump tightening my throat. Ok. Maybe I just need some extra time to process that news. Not that it's a surprising one, though. I can't do my job, so technically it means that my position is free… and Foreman is the best choice… Or the least questionable… well more like the more convenient… or the faster to adjust… So, this is all good! … She really fired me, didn't she? And now, I have no job… I guess I'm gonna have to find myself another goal then, if I want to hold on something motivating enough to get my a$s out of here.

"It's only temporary…" Wilson adds, really embarrassed, as if he was the one who had made the decision, while he's not.

She is.

And the thing is… the thing is, I have nothing to say. Nothing. Because I don't want to think about that. I don't want to ask myself why… She has a hospital to administrate. She has to take decisions regarding its functio… NO! STOP IT! I DON'T WANT to let my mind wander there…

"And Ken and Barbie?" I reel off with a sudden energy of despair "How did the wedding go? Are they back from their honeymoon yet? I bet the bride's already lost her tan, swabbing some real nasty purulent scratches under the E.R's neon-lights, while her Aussie hubby is selling the unofficial pics of the wedding, earning them a little extra."

What I'm saying has no sense, it doesn't even interest me. I don't care about the wedding. I'm glad Cameron married Chase. I'm happy for them. And period. There's no need to make a great fuss about that either! But I need to divert my mind. NOW. And Wilson, he knows me. He knows when it's not worth insisting. So he'll read my signal. He'll follow my U-turn. He's gonna help me deflecting…

"House… She didn't do that for fun… What other choice did you leave her?" He starts, and I frown because for one slight remaining brief moment, I'm stubbornly trying to convince myself that he's still talking about Cameron, which could work, in a way, IF I was the one saying it, but no way it could be coming out of Wilson's mind, phrased like that… and it takes me less than a sharp breath to confirm my doubts. "No one took your job," he carries on, "but you need your license back and in the meantime, there are patients who get sick and need to be treated. She named Foreman, but it's only a professional decision… it's only temporary…"

Ok. So I guess Wilson doesn't always read my signals. Or… he reads my signals, perfectly, but he's also perfectly capable of being the worst pain in the ass ever and I think he just did that on purpose. To annoy me, which he brilliantly did, like BIG TIME! But at the same time, I really feel like it's pointless to hide it any longer. He won't let go of my balls until I have given him what he wants, the sneaky bastard! Cuz' YES, I think about that. I think about that a lot. I want to know how she feels, if she resents me, if she has forgiven me…

"How much does she hate me?" I finally decide to say, peering at my sneakers while deep inside I feel fear pervading me as I'm holding my breath, waiting for his answer.

"She doesn't hate you…"

"Yes she does! She said that I…"

"What? What did she say? That you were fired… c'mon House, you know she didn't mean that. This is crap! She was just angry, confused…"

_Yes she was and I know why she was. And I'm so angry myself because for the reasons why she was._

"YES! Because I made her…" I almost shout to clarify…

Wilson freezes imperceptibly for a brief moment and shoots me a quizzical glance. Then he lowered his head heavily and shrinks as if he suddenly had all the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"No," he mutters, uneasy, "it's me. It's my fault… I…"

"Oh, for the love of God, Wilson, how the hell can it be _your _fault?"

"Because…," he says stubbornly scourging himself, "I'm the one who told you to pull out all the stops…"

"No… well actually yes… YES! Ok, you're right, you messed it up… in a certain way… but eventually, what I did was _my_ choice. And it was _my_ idea to make her angry… _I _was the one hurting her… _I _pushed the limits. _I _was the complete asshole in this."

"But House… you were not yourself…"

"How do you know that? How can you be sure I wouldn't have screwed it up anyway? Because, maybe it has nothing to do with my hallucinations… maybe it's who I am… with her… sick or not sick…"

If I didn't know Wilson so well, I think it'd be reasonable that I consider giving him CPR right now, since he just stopped breathing and stares at me completely awestruck, his eyes about to pop out of his head. One second. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds… Gee! This one's a long one…

"Wow!" he finally says, blowing all the air that was blocked inside his lungs in one puff. "You… you really thought about that! But this is a good thing, I mean, I don't know, it's like you're trying to give it some sense… understand the meaning of your actions, find good reasons to change… House! That's… wow!… quite weird and scary coming from you actually… but in a good way…"

I shrug. What can I say? I chose to be locked up in an asylum. Voluntarily. Isn't it normal that I, at least, try to give some justification to it all?

"I need to get better." I say in a very low voice. "I'm just considering my every option."

I avert my gaze. Suddenly, there's some greenery that I find to be really pleasant to look at. Wilson sighs. A moment drifts away, during which we can hear the sound of the flapping wings of birds flying away from this place.

"Are you talking to a shrink?" Wilson then asks, out of the blue.

"Duh! Noo! They make me see one but that doesn't mean that I'm actually talking to her." I say, rolling my eyes.

"_her_? … oh-ho! It's a 'she'?" He asks that with the same greedy look there is on a child's face who would stare through the window of a candy store.

"And? What does that change?"

"Nothing! Just that… it's a _she_…" He smirks.

"Yeah, well I'm not like you, Jimmy boy! I can perfectly handle a chick shrink without wetting my pants at each session, dreaming about doing her on the sofa!"

He puffs, with a very well mastered _how-dare-you-imply-that?_ shocked look on his face. He opens his mouth to protest but I stop him with a compelling and silencing gesture of the hand.

"Tsss, shut up! You know I'm perfectly right. You have a thing for the caring people. And actually, you certainly would like her actually… she's…"

"Is she hot?"

"I don't know. I haven't … checked her out. Why? You want me to set you on a date?"

"pff! Don't be ridiculous, I'm just…"

"Hah! Speaking of the devil!"

A white coat is approaching our bench. And inside this walking white coat, there's a very smiling shrink, eager to nose around and dig some information about the mysterious sexy guy with is seated next to her cranky patient. Wilson caught my exclaiming tone and stopped. He then followed the direction of my gaze and turned his head. His mouth dropped slightly open at the sight of Dr. Anna Miller coming towards us.

"Is it her?" he mutters under his breath, barely moving his lips and still looking at her, so that he perfectly manages to hide that he's actually talking to me.

I stay silent long enough to allow her to take some extra steps and come closer to us and then, when I'm absolutely sure she will hear this loud and clear, I turn to Wilson and exclaim:

"Of course James, I will introduce you! But just wait until she arrives here."

Needless to say that the glimpse of Wilson's appalled face I just caught out of the corner of my eyes was priceless! Dr. Anna Miller stopped right in front of the bench. She stands with her hands in her coat's pockets and smiles. She heard me, I'm sure. Wilson is sure too. His face is as red as a poppy.

"Wilson" I then say, very solemnly, foolishly enjoying this, "I want you to meet Dr. Anna Miller, psychiatrist. Dr. Miller, here's Dr. James Wilson. He's an oncologist."

At the mention of the specialty, I immediately notice that she frowns, intrigued, her shrink antennas ready to capture any new info that she could use to complete my file. This very thought annoys me a little, but I can't tell why. Or maybe, it's in the real interested way she keeps staring at Wilson, more than it's now necessary. I sigh and then grimace to win her attention back. I put my hand on my stomach and rub the area of the liver.

"Yeah… years of alcohol and pills… it had to get at me eventually…" I'm making a dramatic pout, but not too much, just enough to see confusion and doubt slowly taking her face over. Wilson caught it too and of course, he feels the need to ruin my fun. He promptly gets up off of the bench and puts out a generous hand to her.

"I'm just his friend, visiting." He clarifies, and as she's let him take her slender hand in his, he shakes it vigorously and greets her with a silly beam. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, Dr. Miller."

She gives him his smile back and slowly removes her hand from his, before putting it back in her pocket.

"Nice to meet you too." She says and then turns her head to face me. "Well, I won't bother you any longer, so… I'm letting you enjoy your friend's visit Dr. House. We'll see each other tomorrow for a new session." She then gives Wilson a nod and leaves.

Wilson follows her with his gaze, while she's walks away for what seems to me like a mile long.

"Oh God, will you close your mouth please! You're drooling all over like a horny teenager!" I say to bring him back to life.

"No I'm not!" He defends himself unconvincingly, his smile still lingering on his face.

"What, you think I didn't catch how you were looking at her? You looked like Tex Avery's wolf. Your tongue was practically swabbing the grass…"

"I'm just curious about meeting the medical staff that's handling you, that's all!"

"Yeah, sure, keep deflecting. Maybe if you're lucky, it'll even get you to be delusional so you too could join this place and claim your own fixing sessions with Miss "it's a real pleasure to meet you."

Wilson rolls his eyes and shakes his head, and I burst into laughter. One good big spontaneous laugh that sets Wilson's one off as well. And we sit here, in the park, on my bench, laughing.

And that's the reason why I put him on my list; because Wilson really has his unique way of being paternalistic, utterly annoying but unintentionally so oddly relieving at the same time.

* * *

**A/N**

_The song for this chapter is_ **Coldplay – "everything's not lost"** _on YouTube with this address (the end of it...) _.com/watch?v=BhfKkF6sgNA

_Please tell me what you think of the story so far! THANK YOU!_

_Have a very nice day, or most probably evening, even night now! ~ maya_

**PS: WARNING! for those who like this story and want to read on, from next chapter on, you'll find it in the M-rated section... :)**


	6. The High

**~~ CHAPTER 5**: **Monday, June 1st – The High ["_She's so dangerously addictive._"] ~~**

She's putting on her jacket. She's about to leave and I miss her already. But this feeling is so damn good. I feel light. I feel renewed. I've just been walking through Hell and she was there to hold my hand. God, she's so beautiful! I don't want to let her go. She stands at the door and I come near her. I don't know what I want to do just yet, but I'm sure I want to make it last a little longer.

"Thank you." I say and I wish I could hold back the time and make her stay.

She grabs the knob and opens the door. I peer at her and I bare my soul in the intensity of my stare. I try to convey to her how I feel. How she makes me feel. She smiles. And her smile is so soft and non judgmental. It's like she had guessed. Like she had always known…

"You wanna kiss me, don't you?"

And yet, there's mischievousness in the depth of her eyes. And provocation too. She dares me. She dares me to be honest. Because, in that very instant, it's still a game for her. She thinks it'll just be another tease. She's afraid to hope… We've played that game so many times before. And I've hurt her so many times while playing that game, lying to her about it being only a game… But today is not like any other day. Today I stand in front of her and I've finally accepted my desire to face my fears and to leave my pride behind. For her. Because I want her.

"I always want to kiss you."

She's taken aback. She imperceptibly gasps. I'm sure she didn't think I'd tell her that. Her gaze scarcely changes, and she takes a sharp breath. It only lasts a few seconds but I know she wonders what to do. She looks so fragile. She makes this adorable hesitating wiggle with her shoulders and finally, she takes a step forward. Then I know instantly what is going to happen, by the way she looks at me and how she parts her lips slightly. I am irresistibly drawn to her. But I'm afraid too. Afraid that she might only kiss me out of pity. Afraid that she might not mean it the way I mean it. I lean down, and I feel the soft touch of her lips on mine. And the moment I do, everything changes. She doesn't just kiss me gently. She sensually nibbles my bottom lip. And she sweeps me off my feet.

But just when I start to crave more, it's already over. She breaks away from the kiss and she looks up at me with bewilderment. She's almost panicked by the reaction she knows she just triggered in me. But it's too late. So deliciously too late. Because undeniably, she felt it too. I know it. She knows it. We stare challengingly at each other for a short moment. I read it in her eyes, as surely as she reads it in mine. It says: "This is it. Now!" She holds her breath and I dive in wild, with desire. I throw myself into her. With my hand, I slam the door shut and then I wrap her in my arm, I imprison her. I push her against the wall and this is violent. This is passionate. This is years of pretenses and lies suddenly bursting out of us. She moans into my mouth and God! It drives me crazy already. We're not kissing, we're devouring each other. Our hands are searching fervently for the bodies underneath our clothes. We grip each other. I don't breathe anymore. I'm just an uncontainable desire needing to be soothed.

She struggles to get rid of her jacket. Her impatience is so strong. I help her take it off and I toss it on the floor behind us. One of my hands brushes her breast and with the other one placed flat on the small of her back, I hold her firmly against me. Her skin feels like a burning fire under my touch. I'm high. I feel no pain anymore, only one fucking hell of an erection aching inside my pants. I have never wanted someone as strongly as I want her now. Her curves, her breasts, her ass, her warmth when I'm inside her. I know how that feels. I've lived that once. And I've never forgotten it. I want to feel like that again. She's the perfect lover. She's made for me. She's the one made to drive me insane. I remember the sound of her cries when she comes. I remember her groove. The intoxicating sway of her hips…

We're waltzing now. She's clinging on to me and I keep her on her feet. She makes me feel strong. She makes me feel like a man. I don't limp. Or I don't care if I do. We're bumping into furniture but it's safe. It doesn't hurt. It's only lust. Yearning. Desire. She takes my jacket off. I peel off her sweater. And we kiss. We breathe in each other's mouth. God! We've been such crazy fools! How could we possibly have waited for so long to live that again? It feels so good. She tastes so good. And the promise of what's about to come is even better…

I squeeze her really hard against me. I wind my arm around her waist and I envelop her petite frame completely. She cradles my jaw. She caresses my neck. She combs my hair with her fingers. It sends shivers down my spine. I can't think anymore. All my blood rushes down to the part of my body that screams to have her now. We stumble. We dance. We run. We limp. We bump against the walls. And we're heading to my room. In the hallway, just in front of the door, I pick her up the floor and she holds on to me. She doesn't hesitate. She trusts me to do this. I feel as free as the wind. I can do anything. She makes everything possible. I could fly for her if I had to. She's so dangerously addictive. And we're going to have sex until we can no longer breathe…

I throw her on the mattress. She takes a brief moment to recover. She pants, with her mouth wide open. Her eyes glow and she looks at me with an incredible smile that instantly blows my mind away. I wish every man would have a woman smiling at them like that just once. I unbutton my shirt, take it off, and I throw it away on the floor. In the meantime, she fidgets to take her singlet off and she almost tears the lace off while she removes it. Oh Fucking God! Her eagerness is such a turn-on… She's now lying bare-chested on my bed and her breasts are the most compelling invitation to pleasure you could imagine. Can something be more beautiful than that? She's gorgeous. She puts out a hand to me. I can't resist her call. I take it and I fall on top of her. I cup her breasts in the palm of my hands. They have a perfect shape, a perfect fullness, a perfect softness, a perfect size. They fit inside my hands like they've always been meant to be there. I caress her and she arches her back up to me. I take one of her breasts in my mouth. I suck her hard erect nipple and she makes crazy moaning sounds above me that make my head spin. I have wished for this so many times and it's finally happening. She's mine. And my cock is going to explode inside my pants if I don't fuck her now.

I climb a little higher up to her face and we smother each other with kisses, while our hands are frenziedly trying to take the rest of our clothes off. I don't know who the greediest one is. I don't know who is longing for this the most. I just know that it's a need, an impulse, a desire, so full of urgency that I'm not really sure we're gonna be able to wait until we've removed all our clothes completely. She's struggling with the button on my pants and I'm taking care of her zipper. At the same time, we're both toeing our shoes off and her heels make a heavy thud when they fall on the wooden floor. Now her moans sound like whines. I can feel her warm agitated breath on my neck. It's unbelievable the way we're breathing, so loudly and fast. It's like we've been running a race, but a race where we would both be each other's finish line. We've been running to find each other for years. And now we have and the course of events can't seem to go fast enough for us to soothe our hunger.

But yet, I have to make her lay still. And I need to calm down. Because we're just like horny clumsy teenagers. We're going nowhere. Nowhere I would want to be already. She squirms like a worm under me to make her pants slide along her legs but she only manages to make them go half way down her thighs. I'm sure from an outside view it could almost look like we're wrestling. But we're not. Not anymore. Fights are over. At least in that very moment, they are. I grab her wrists and I stretch her arms above her head to immobilize her. I'm just an inch away from her face and I smile at her. She frowns, puzzled, but I give her a reassuring look. My eyes are telling her to let me do this, to trust me, to let go. She understands what I mean and she smiles back. I relax my hold on her wrists, gently, and I feel her body loosening under mine. Her body. For me and no one else. I gasp. Yes I do. Because I can't pretend I don't give a shit. I can't act like I don't care. She's the one. And I want to be HER man. She has everything to give and I'm willing to take it. And I want to give something to her too. I want to _give_. For the first time in ages, I've found that feeling again. SHARE. That's what I want to do with her.

I lean down on her. Softly. I want to take pleasure on every second of it. I want leisureliness. I lay my palm on her midriff. She takes a sharp breath when my skin makes contact with her skin. Slowly, very slowly, before we inevitably go wild again, I caress her. My hand brushes her stomach and trails up higher until it meets her left breast. Firm, curvaceous, warm. I cup it in the palm of my hand and I peer into her steel grey eyes, while under my touch I can feel the pounding pulse of her heartbeats. She's aroused and I'm turned-on beyond reason. I dive in her neck and I bite gently at her jugular. She lets out a throaty cry and she plants her nails in my back. I kiss her. I nibble. I lick her skin. When I sense her starting to wiggle impatiently again, I pull away from her and I straighten up on my knees to take her pants off. I look at her perfect flat belly going up and down, matching her quick loud breaths and I finish undressing her completely. She lays naked, right here, under me, and she summons me to her call. _The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it_… Yes, Oscar Wilde was right. Because I want nothing other than to surrender to her now.

But I still have my pants on. We exchange a quick glance and she instantly sits up and faces me. There's a time-suspended moment while she stares so intensely at me, it feels like an electric shock is jerking my spine. Then, keeping her eyes locked into mine, she reaches out her hand to the waistband of my pants and she pulls me to her. I topple and I grip her to not lose my balance. And that's exactly what she wants: bring me close to her. We're kneeling down on the mattress and her naked body is just along mine, so very near that her skin almost burns mine through the fabric of my clothes. I cup her face inside my hands and I draw her to me. And we kiss. And the savor of her tongue tastes like the sweetest nectar of an exotic fruit. I feel her hands on my lower abdomen, busy undressing me. She's so confident in her moves. She's undoing my belt, unbuttoning my pants, unzipping my fly. And… Oh Fuck! YES! That's what I'm talking about! This is not a game we're playing. She takes my shaft in her hand and I can't repress the groan that comes out of my throat. I may have spent the worst awful night of my life aching like Hell, but now everything's different. I'm like a fizzling electric wave. I'm just energy. She's the strongest pain killer I've ever taken. She's my high. My fix. I feel her power and her strength flowing in my veins when we're together. And I feel like I could climb mountains. We're still kissing and the violent urge of moving on to the next step is almost stabbing me in the heart. Things accelerate. I move her hand away from my cock and I finish taking my pants off swiftly. The room spins. I push her backward and I fall with her.

I look at her. She looks at me. She bits her bottom lips. She bucks her hips. Her curves rise up and down and rub and tease. I have the hardest erection ever. I can't take it anymore. She can't take it anymore. I thsearch for her entrance with my finger and I reach out for her promise land. She's wet, so wet. I'm gonna OD on endorphins. I take my cock in my hand and I guide myself inside her, powerfully. She gapes, her eyes wide open, planted inside mine. I seize her ass and I make her lift her hips higher. And I shove into her. Hard. Deep. Fast. And then slow. I lean down and I bite her lips. I suck her tongue into my mouth. I grip her shoulder, I squeeze her. And I pant. And she moans. She scratches my back. She throws her head back. She closes her eyes. And I look at her. I look at her. How beautiful she is when I make love to her. I rest my forehead against her forehead. I trace the lines of her curves. And I pin her to the mattress with my thrusts. She's the shore of a desert island and I'm the wave that comes crashing in and out of her. And I feel her quaking under me. I pump and her head is knocking on the headboard. Knocking. Knocking… I thrust and she pants and I close my eyes. I take deep breaths. I lose myself in her scent. The intoxicating smell of her pheromones. Nothing smells like sex. Nothing compares to that particular odor, when the air gets filled with the lustful mixture of sweat and warm breaths and body fluids.

Nothing is like that smell… I'm coming… I feel my shaft throbbing inside her. I feel her tight inner walls milking my juice… And I fly… Because there's nothing like that smell… That smell… Ether and metal and disinfected sheets… I open my eyes… She's gone… There's nobody… Nobody but me… Me and…

"'Morning Greg! I'm Joe. I'm bringing you your pills. How are you today? Did you sleep well?"

I blink a few times and I shake my head. Yes. I'm still here. And none of this was real. It was NOT REAL… I look at the ceiling. I take a long deep breath, while between my thighs I feel the warm and thick liquid of my semen pouring down my groin.

* * *

**A/N**

_Hi everyone!_

_I hope you're still enjoying this story..._

_the song I chose to convey the atmosphere for this chapter is :_ **Patti Smith "Because The Night"** (available on you tube, with the link "http://" + "www." + "youtube" + .com/watch?v=0brHGJ6xqbk _sorry if I can't put it in one clickible link, cuz' otherwise, it's erased...)_

_let me know your thoughts_

_and have a nice day and if I may, I want to shout a primal shout of JOY because YAY!!! only 7 days left before season premiere!! woo-hoo!.... ~ maya_


	7. 2nd session: Dreams and Commitments

_Here's a new chapter. quite a long one...__ second shrink session, getting onto the delicate subject of House's intimate life... I hope you'll like it_

* * *

**PREAMBLE**_ - _Sunday May, 30th (flash back) - "_Sometimes, I have the feeling his pain isn't just caused by a physical injury."_

Wilson was walking across the hallway of Mayfield mental institution, at a regular pace, neither slow nor fast, just a normal walking rhythm to make his way out after having spent the afternoon with House. He was feeling a little bit awkward, but he couldn't tell why. His awkwardness however was not a bad feeling. On the contrary, it was rather full of hope. To his surprise, while he had expected anything, including finding House irretrievably crazed, he, on the contrary, had found his friend better than he had dared to wish. Being reassuringly the same, while encouragingly… not the same. It resided in his way of trying to put words on daily normal situations, like any person would do, without deflecting or being sarcastic; and it was also lying in the fact that they have had a "conversation" with a subject, a goal, a content, and Wilson had felt House was finally aware of the things that were at stake more than he ever had seen him be before. Somehow Wilson, who was terrified to come here at first (which was something he would never have admitted to House) was now leaving with the kind of lightness he'd never expected to feel. And this feeling was a very good one; one that drew a smile on his lips almost unconsciously while he was heading out.

"Dr Wilson!"

Wilson stopped at the sudden call of his name and turned around to see Dr. Anna Miller quickly catching up with him. She joined him and gave him a shy smile, while she stood in front of him, slightly short of breath and taking a brief silent moment before speaking.

"Yes?" Wilson asked her, furrowing his brow.

"I need to ask you a few questions about Dr. House, if you're ok with it of course. Would you mind answering them while I'm walking with you to the door?"

Wilson looked at her and smiled. _She's really attractive_, he thought, _and I like the softness of her voice. Non judgmental, appeasing…_

"Ok." He said.

They both started to walk, silently at first, just alongside each other, taking slow paces, and absent-mindedly staring straight ahead.

"Dr. Wilson, do you think Dr. House's leg causes him a great deal of pain?" Dr. Miller finally asked him out of the blue.

"Of course!," Wilson immediately exclaimed, a little puzzled by the question, "He had a piece of his muscle removed, because of a blood clot that had form in his thigh and when…"

"You don't need to explain, Dr. Wilson. I already know all there is to know about that…"

"Then why are you asking me?" Wilson inquired, intrigued.

Anna Miller stopped and turned to face him. She swiftly glanced around her and then lowered her eyes to the ground. When she tilted her head upward again, she looked at Wilson with a genuine gaze, saying "_ok, let's be blunt, I don't want to cheat with you anyway…_"

"Sometimes…" She started, a little hesitantly nonetheless, "I have the feeling his pain isn't just caused by a physical injury."

Wilson looked away to hide the surprise in his eyes. Of course House was not only hurting on a physical level. And it clearly took some real and sincere concern to be able to notice that. He felt both reassured and seduced by the fact that Anna Miller already seemed to have deciphered that aspect of his friend and cared enough about what it could mean to ask him about it. He turned his face toward her again, and without saying a word, he stared at her intensely, conveying with his piercing gaze every confirming answer she was expecting to receive. She slightly nodded and started to walk again. After a few steps, she took Wilson aback again with another unexpected and direct question.

"His file says he's not married. But I was wondering if he had someone in his life."

Wilson sighed, uneasy. This was a delicate field and he felt like he was walking on eggshells. He really didn't want to betray House by giving any information that belonged to his friend's private life to this doctor, no matter how sympathetic and nice she seemed to be.

"I don't think I should be answering that question." He said, with an almost sorry voice, "That's something you should ask _him._"

"I will. And I'm not asking you to betray his privacy." She clarified with a reassuring voice, "Just tell me yes or no, so that at least I can know if he's lying to me or not."

Wilson sighed again, this time disappointed. Was it possible that this feeling of optimism he had felt earlier while in his friend's company was just an illusion? Was every assumption he had heard House make about himself and what he had done or the acknowledgement of his guilt, only an act? And yet, Wilson was sure he had perceived the change, very slightly, imperceptible, but there nonetheless.

"He's lying to you…" He puffed, embittered, feeling every bit of hope vanishing within this simple defeating statement.

As if Anna Miller had read the doubt that had passed through Wilson's mind, she gently reached out her hand to touch his arm and spoke to him with a soft voice.

"Well every patient does. It's a normal reaction. They don't trust me easily. Because they don't see why they should. But that's ok… Your friend doesn't escape the rule but he is no worse than anyone else."

Wilson raised his eyebrows in disbelief. _How could that be a good thing, or even an excuse?_ He thought.

"There're lots of things that Dr. House still needs to address before he can start to face the truth… _his_ truth." Anna Miller carried on, as if she had read Wilson's need for clarification, "It's a normal process. I mean, lying to me is not the real problem, it's lying to oneself that is…"

"And you think House is lying to himself?" Wilson asked carefully, fully knowing that this was indeed the only thing that could prevent the whole process from having any chance to be a success.

Anna Miller remained silent for a moment, only studying him with a fond smile.

"I think Dr. House had his eyes closed for a long period of time, and now, he's just starting to re-open them. What he sees is frightening, but he doesn't close them back up. He keeps looking…"

(…)

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**CHAPTER 6** – Monday June, 1st – 2nd Session: Dreams and Commitments. - "_I threw the coffee cup away__."_

I hate mornings like this one.

I hate waking up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding in my chest like I've been running a race. How ironic since I don't run! Because I can't run…

I've dreamed that dream a million times. I've dreamed it before, during and after. It's not JUST a pure product of my delusional mind. I dreamed about that moment when I was sane. And I also dreamed about it when I was drunk, when I was high, when I was lost and confused and sleep deprived and insane and crazy and hallucinating. I've dreamed about it in every circumstance there is. Because she's my obsession. I've dreamed about making love to her, and how I would feel and how I would make her feel. She's my obsession, but I'm not mad.

I'M NOT MAD.

I know what that dream says. I've always known. I just refused to see it. I just denied it exists. I was scared to admit…

I WANT TO BE WITH HER.

Not just meaninglessly. Not just to play around, and have a good time, not just to take advantage of her gorgeous exciting body. Yes, she's a turn-on! I'm not lying to myself about that. She would turn every reasonably sane man mad with her swaying hips, her curves, her ass, her boobs… She's eroticism. Pure eroticism with a human shape.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK! It hurt. Dammit, it hurt so much to look at her every day, walk past her, meet her eyes, see her smile, and feel the shiver… I teased, she teased and we lived the painful illusion that we were making steps forward. I lived the illusion that she wanted me to step forward, while the truth is we were heading nowhere. Because I've been stubbornly incapable of saying what I want to her. While I've perfectly known the answer for so long…

I don't care about her body. Eventually that's not what I want. Of course I'm a man, a hormone driven silly man who only dreams about having sex. Isn't that what she thinks? Isn't that who she thinks I am? A libidinous man, incapable of feeling anything for anyone but himself? She doesn't think I'm serious. She will never think I can be, because she doesn't see me as a man. I'm just an annoying jerk to her. Dammit! Have I gone too far? She's always tolerated me pushing the limits further and I couldn't see where to stop. I couldn't see the line, or me walking beyond that line. It's my fault. I'm responsible. I am the coward. I messed with her, I jerked her around, I pissed her off. I hid …

No, no, NO! SHE teased. She drove me insane. She let me believe it. _She_ is the cause of my dream.

I dreamed that fucking dream a million times because this is what I thought she wanted to have with me. When she locks her eyes with mine, she speaks. Her eyes speak. I know I'm not mad. I know I saw it. I know she wants it. She's just as twisted as I am. She's guarded. She protects herself. She pushes me away but she wants _me_. She runs but deep inside she wants me to run after her, doesn't she?

DOESN'T SHE?

She said I was afraid to be happy and I asked her why she cared. But she looked down. She avoided my question. She remained silent. She refused to tell me. Because she's scared. And if she's scared, doesn't that mean that she cares? Would she be afraid if I meant nothing to her? She said "_everybody knows this is going somewhere_" … Somewhere… But where are we now? What have we done? What do we have left? I know she once thought I could be part of her life. I know she doesn't hate me. But I need to know. I need to know this is real. I need to know I'm not dreaming anymore. What does she want? Does she think about letting me in her life? Does she think I'm worthy?

I'm terrorized. Just terrorized. I don't want to suffer. I don't want to be in pain. I lived through too much pain already and I can't take it anymore. I once loved. I once gave. I opened up. I've been fragile. And it all came hitting me back in the face like a crushing gigantic wave that has swallowed me into its confusing maelstrom. I don't want to live that again. I know what I'm ready for and I know what I'm not ready for.

I'm not here to change. I don't NEED to change. And I don't think I want to either. I've been overwhelmed. I've been overcome by fears, distressing feelings, perturbing events, but I'm dealing with that now. I feel like I can sift some truth out of my mind. Yes. I feel I can. _Alone._

Maybe I'm thinking too much. My head is fizzling. It's exhausting but at the same time I have the feeling it's also liberating. It's strange. I've always asked myself questions, dozens of them, but the answers were never about me. I've conspicuously avoided "me" or dealing with "me" for many years, because I thought it was useless. I honestly did. Take Cameron for example. She's a charming attractive young girl but she got me all wrong right from the beginning. She wanted to fix me when, seriously, what was more pointless than that? I didn't even bother to do that myself. I don't deserve love. I know I'm despicable. Ok. This is not a surprise. I've asked for it. I've pushed people away. Wilson always accuses me of being the martyr, wallowing in my own misery, but I'm not. My life didn't deserve to be fixed that's all. And I didn't expect anyone to show any interest in me whatsoever. On the contrary, I've despised every display of pitying concern I've been the subject of over the years. I didn't need that. I hated that. But yet, _she_'s always there. She is the only one who had always been there. For me. And I've always let her. I think I've even longed for that spellbinding feeling of knowing I was her "object to crave". The one she wanted to protect, because she has protected me, from others, from danger, from myself. And I can't stop thinking about that. I can't stop asking myself why? So this has nothing to do with her swaying hips, her curves, her ass or her boobs. It's her. It's just the way she makes me feel, like I'm not the worst useless piece of shit in this world. Like I can mean something for someone…

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

I'm standing at the shrink's door for the second time and surprisingly, I find myself really impatient to find out what this is going to be about today. These sessions we have are surely pointless but somehow, I find them refreshing. They're a distraction. At least that's how I've decided to take them: as a distraction. That makes the moment more interesting in the end. Funnier. Still useless, but not so boring. I knock.

"Come in!" I hear from behind the door.

I turn the knob and push the door open. She's there, leaning back in her chair, her hands crossed on top of her lap, her ever even smile on her ever even face. I step in and I let myself fall down on the armchair in front of her desk before she gets the chance to make an offer for me to do it first. She will anyway, so I think I can save her the trouble of saying it. I feel she observes me while I'm irrepressibly wiggling trying to find the most comfortable angle that will both suits my back and my leg and when I'm finally done, I rest my cane on my lap and I deign to give her a look.

"Are you comfortably seated?" She asks me with a slight but undeniable mocking tone that I don't fail to notice.

I smile. What did I just say? Funnier and less boring…

"Well of course this is not as comfy as a king size bed but it should work, at least for the next thirty minutes or so during which you're going to keep me here, chit-chatting about really worthless matters."

"You consider yourself being a worthless matter?" She jumps on the occasion, with her eyes almost glittering with shrink's self-satisfaction.

Hah! And yet I just offered her that one! I think it was a too easy one by the way. Too easy to fully enjoy it I guess. I sigh. I look down. I feign embarrassment. I'm acting this quite well.

"What is there to say about me that would be worthy?" I say with a perfect disenchanted intonation.

"Nothing."

She said that without a hesitation. She said that without even sounding provocative. She said that and now she stares at me, with her eyes saying "_see? I can play too! Isn't it fun?_"

I set my lips and narrow my eyes. I look at her with an extra look of defiance. I wait for a time-suspended moment, weighing up my options and I finally decide to push the game where she brought it. I stand up.

"What are you doing?" She asks, with no surprise or curiosity, just the need to know if I really have a goal.

"I'm following your logic. I'm leaving" I explain, "Since we both agree we have nothing interesting to discuss maybe it'd be better if we called it off for today."

I don't know why but, despite what I just said, I'm rooted to my spot. I look dumb. I said I was leaving and I'm not. I'm just standing there in front of her, unable to resign myself to leave the room. I guess I'm waiting for her to say something, protest, hold me back. But she peers at me and she doesn't say a word. Eventually I sit down again, and I look away.

"Is something bothering you, Greg?" She inquires and quite immediately she adds "Do you mind if I called you Greg?"

And with that, she just gives me the perfect pretext to avoid answering the first, much more disturbing question.

"Actually I do!" I exclaim with an exaggerated appalled face, "You know me for what? Two weeks? And you already want to move on to the first name!" I raise my eyebrow in a very well-mastered shocked expression "Dr. Miller, are you coming on to me?"

"Calling you by your first name is a come-on?" She replies without missing a beat.

"Duh! I'm sure you shrink people must have some protocol somewhere saying it is." I add, actually making a point, "What if I called you Anna?"

"I wouldn't mind." She seems to answer with honesty.

I take a pause. I scrutinize her. She's unpredictable and it's irritatingly challenging. But challenging nonetheless. I like challenge. I don't deny it. It's irritating but intellectually stimulating too. And I like being stimulated. Whenever I feel this is the right moment.

"Tell me Dr. Miller," I say, purposely over stressing her last name, "isn't it the patient who's supposed to use the shrink as an object of transference and not the other way around?"

"Do you think I am crossing a line?"

"A line? What line?"

"Calling you by your first name? Am I going too far, stepping into your personal space?"

I puff. My personal space! I gave up on it the moment I walked in this place. What a great concept to be brought up here, now, today… What personal space do I have? A ten feet square box with a window blocked by metallic bars? An unscrupulous male nurse invading my privacy in the most inappropriate moments, seeing me weak, seeing me cry… Yes, I cried this morning. When Joe stepped in my room with his fucking tray, carrying his fucking plastic cup filled with my dose, I was crying. Over my painfully useless ejaculation, crying in shame over my dream, that had just slipped away from me again. So where's my personal space? Where's my privacy? Where's my pride?

"Ok. Call me Greg if you want to. Joe does. So why wouldn't you, right? You guys really seem to like that first name's hypocrisy thing." I say embittered.

"Why is it hypocritical?"

"Because you don't know me."

"So you're saying the use of your first name is reserved for people who know you?"

Funny she says that. Actually I never thought about it myself. Practically no one calls me Greg. Except my mother. And my father… and Stacy. But he's dead now, and she's gone, so that leaves my mom and that's it. And yet, there're many people who know me better than I sometimes allow myself to and still, they don't call me Greg.

"Not necessarily," I answer, "Wilson calls me House."

"And you call him Wilson. And yet, you seem to appreciate each other."

I stare at her, contemplating that indisputable evidence: Wilson and I appreciate each other.

"Were you happy to have him visit yesterday?"

I shrug. What does she expect from me? That I stand up and do a little friendship dance? Yeah, Wilson came to see me. It was cool. We talked and we had fun and then he left and I stayed here. There's nothing to say, nothing to add. It speaks for itself. And she was there, she saw him. She even let him flirt with her a bit, the little minx. So how dare she start acting all ingenuous now and ask me about Wilson! I will not say a word.

In the meantime, during my stubbornly silent moments, she writes. It's amazing how she tends to be inspired mostly by silence. Every time I say nothing, she looks at me and she writes something. Her writing is regular, confident, flowing. She seems to know very well what to write. This is intriguing. But I try not to pay attention. I know I could be easily obsessed if I'd allow myself to go down there. So I'd rather forget about her writing and especially about what she writes.

"Aren't we supposed to discuss something or whatever subject your meddling shrinking mind wants to dig up?"

She jerks her head up and she smiles.

"Do you want to talk about something in particular, Dr. House?" She asks, accentuating the use of my last name with an exaggerated phrasing.

"No. But I thought you, on the other hand, were sorta paid for that! Am I wrong?"

"Ok," she said, taking the challenge, "why don't we talk about your dreams?"

God! Life is so fucking ironic! Of all the subjects in the world she could have picked… I gasped, but I think I managed to hide it from her and now that the first effect of surprise is gone, I regain my perfectly calm composure and I defiantly ask,

"My dreams? You mean the ones in which I kill my father or the ones in which I'm marrying my mom? ... or maybe… you mean the ones in which you and I have sex?..."

She looks at me and she furrows her brow and I can't tell if she's amused or just intrigued. Maybe she's both.

"I know some psycho crap you know." I clarify with a bit of sarcasm in my voice.

"Oh you do?" She smiles slightly, "Well, actually I meant what you're wishing for, but since you talked about that, why don't you tell me when you made love for the last time?"

Dammit! Slippery slope. Now my only getaway option is to deliberately shock her.

"Mmm, let me think…" I rub my chin, conspicuously. "I think this morning I met Rosy Palm and her five sisters…"

"Masturbation is not actually what I meant…" She answers tit for tat in a perfectly detached tone.

I failed. She didn't cringe. She's not impressed. She doesn't even raise her head to me, she looks down at her notes, she writes. Goddamn shrinks! Why do they always have to make it be about sex? You'd think you'd be the one needing some mind fixing, but in the end, who's the one really having a problem? Who's the freak here? At least, I'm not ashamed to face it. Not ashamed to say it… _Yes go, on!_ I think, w_hy don't you write that down? : Gregory House is spanking the monkey in his loony bin room…_ I'm upset. She drags me where I don't want to be. And she knows what she does. She knows. I hear the sound of her breath, calm and regular. I'm focusing on it so that I don't have to hear mine, rapid and agitated… What choice do I have? What other choice does she leave me?

"Ok. Then I guess it was before I came here obviously, with… what was her name? I think it was Lolli… or something involving her tongue's skills…"

"I'm sorry Dr. House I asked you the last time you _made love_, not the last time you had sex with a hooker…"

Is humiliation part of their process too? Or is it just me, feeling oddly, bared and exposed? … I try to collect the pieces of my dislocated pride and I keep my head up.

"And what's the difference?"

"You don't see one?"

I stare at her, silently. The clock's tic-tock noise in her office echoes like a beating drum inside my head.

"_You wanna kiss me don't you?"_

"_I always want to kiss you…"_

I clench my fists and I grind my teeth, metaphorically bending my contemptuous persona to face the turmoil she threw me in.

Tic-tock… Tic-tock… Tic-tock… Tic-tock… Make it short, please. I want to go back to my room, close my eyes, fly away, and escape here…

"Have you ever been in love Dr. House?"

"What?"

"Have you ever been married?"

"You need to be married to be in love?"

"So you heard me the first time."

"Yes."

"Yes, you heard me or yes you've already been married?"

"No. I've never been married… But…"

If she's smart, like I think she is, she'll understand the implied statement.

"How long has it been?"

_Thank you… _Yes I've been in love. I loved. Or maybe I love. Now… I don't know. I want to get this over with. Talking about the past seems my safest way out. The least painful.

"Nine years…" I say, and just when I hear the echo of my own voice filling the room, it's like I was finally measuring the importance of the void. Nine years. Of loneliness, emotional deprivation. Nine years of absolute nothingness.

NOTHING.

I feel a lump tightening my throat. I have trouble breathing. I hear the loud pounding sound of my heartbeat drumming in my ears. I feel dizzy. I think about my dream… her… my dream…

"But you're not with that person anymore?"

"No."

Simple questions. Short answers. No justification. No explanation. Just facts. Dates.

"What happened?"

"My bum leg got in the way…"

"She rejected you because of your handicap?"

Her voice had slightly risen a notch when she's asked, as if, for once, she had been unable to hide the discomfort lying under this horrible potentially true assumption. _Hah! Yes, wouldn't it be a disgusting thing to leave a man because he'd become a cripple? What kind of woman would do that? Is that why you ask yourself now, Dr. Miller? Do you wonder how I possibly could have been in love with a woman incapable of staying at my side in the darkest moments of my life?_

"She left, yes," I say with a necessarily thought-provoking unmoved inflexion in my voice, "but don't get upset doc! Cuz' technically, it's not her fault. I am the one responsible…"

"What do you mean?"

"I made sure I was no longer the kind of man she would have wanted to stay with…"

"Why?"

"Because…" I take a deep breath and I avert my gaze.

FIND STRENGTH. FACE IT…

"They didn't only take a piece of muscle in my thigh, I guess…" I mumble under my breath, looking down at my feet.

A heavy silence fills her office. I don't dare lift my head but I sense her scrutinizing gaze on me. She wonders. She's probably contemplating the best ways to put a name on that now and ask me about it.

"You think your leg changes the way a woman looks at you as a man?" She finally inquires.

"Yeah. I'm full of self-loathing and contempt." I spit, angry at myself for not being able to fight that.

I hear _her_ voice in my head. Those are _her _words, the ones _she_ had told me that day, when _she_ had wanted to exclude me from her baby naming ceremony. And now, so many days of uncertainty afterward, it still feels like a brutal slap in the face; the most awful hurting words, dangerously cutting my mind into incoherent slices like the sharpest razor blades.

I take a sharp breath and my eyes fill with tears. I hate myself. I hate my life and what I've made of it.

"Do you think this is fixable Dr. Miller?" I add, provocatively, fighting hard against the salty flow trying to find its way out of my eyes' rim.

She bites her lips. She looks uneasy. God! I thought she would have liked that! I thought she would have gloated and now, instead, she just seems to be embarrassed. It's odd. But strangely, it helps me fight back the tears. I set my lips and I raise my chin and I pierce into her eyes, until I can feel her discomfort growing, clinging on to the ridiculous childish hope that I will be able to make her feel ashamed of being a witness to that. She gulps. She tilts her head down, focusing on her notebook for a while, but she doesn't write anything. Then finally, she raises her face again and she stares at me.

"And now?"

"Now what?"

"Is there someone?"

"I don't know…" I mumble

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"It takes two to be in a relationship…"

"Yes. And?"

"And I'm here. Alone."

"So there's no one. No one you can think of?"

"Why is it important for you to know? What's the difference?"

"The difference resides in what you want Dr. House… What do _you_ want?"

_Do you want to be the man with the answer or do you want to be the man with Cuddy?_

I threw the coffee cup away.

I threw it away because the answer was simple. And I didn't want to lie this time. Not this time. There were things I didn't want to fight anymore. There were things I was ready to face. I'm still terrified as hell but now, I know I can be good if I want to. I have felt it. It's still lingering in the compelling power of my dream. It may be unreal, but the feeling it leaves is NOT an illusion. _She_ makes me want to stop asking myself questions. Tear down those walls I've built…

Lisa. Tell me I haven't spoiled all my chances…

"I want to make a phone call" I answer out of the blue.

"Good. You can make it as soon as the session is over then."

"No. you don't understand" I say, staring at the phone on her desk, hoping she will get the implied message, "That's personal."

There's NO WAY I'm gonna use that damn phone they provide us with. NO WAY I'm gonna let anyone listen to me, while I'm making that call; just maybe only her, if I have to, but that's all. She perceived my determination in the urgency of my tone. She read my intentions very well. Still, she lifts her eyebrows, intrigued.

"I'm sorry Dr House, we can't let you make a phone call on your own. It's against the rules in here."

"Why?" I demand harshly, "You think I'm gonna call my dealer? You think I know someone who can sneak me in some good stuff?"

"Do you?"

I glare at her with contempt. Fucking stubborn annoying shrink! Of course I do! I always have a solution. But… can't she just see that this time I don't care! I couldn't care less about drugs or Vicodin right now. I don't want to cheat. This is not what I'm asking. I want this to work. She sustains my glare with a soft smile.

"Do you?" She repeats slowly.

"I know a LOT of people…" I answer, evasively. "But I won't call _them_…"

"Who do you want to call then?" She asks suddenly, taking me by surprise and causing my heart to race in my chest.

We lock eyes. She dares me to tell her a name. A hint, something. But I can't. I just can't utter a word. It's blocked inside my throat. I look away. I don't know what else to say. I'm afraid she's going to think I'm challenging her while I'm not. Silence invades every corner of the room leaving no space for any lively sound to resonate. She says nothing. Seconds fly by and with each one of them, I can feel my chances of convincing her to say yes just vanishing in the air. I lost. She won't grant me permission. Why would I think she'd be okay with what I asked anyway? She's no different than the others. No different.

"Ok."

I turn my head back to face her. She's handing over something to me. It's her cell phone.

"Make it short." She says.

I can't help squinting at her right now. She took me aback. I wasn't expecting that. I'm paralyzed. She stands up and comes near me. She must have seen that I'm quite rooted to my spot, unable to simply reach out my hand to take her cell phone. She stands in front of me and hands the phone over to me. I look up at her and I extend my hand to take it. I tremble. I hold the cell phone and I stare at it, then I look at her and I take a deep breath. I guess her presence is less annoying than to have a sneaky bastard glued to my shoulder, who takes great delight in hearing some details of unhinged people's private conversations. I focus my gaze on the phone again, and I start to dial a number. She puts her hand on mine and holds my gesture back.

"Wait!" She says.

"What?"

"Don't you want to wait until you're alone?" She says, testing my reaction.

"You mean, this is an option?"

"Yes."

"And what's the condition?"

"There's no condition."

"I don't believe you."

"Well. Maybe then, let's say the condition is you and I will have to talk about your trust issues next time we meet…" She smiles lightly.

"So you're serious." I have a hard time believing this is for free. "What benefits do you get from this?"

"Why do you always have to assume _**I**_ am the one getting some benefits?"

She narrows her eyes and challengingly looks down at me. I sustain her gaze. When she's absolutely certain I have gotten her underlying message about this rules transgression being about me and what I can gain out of it, she turns her heels and heads to the door.

"The session is over. I trust you to leave the cell phone back on the desk when you're done. Please don't deceive me, Dr. House."

I nod.

"Thank you." I uncomfortably whisper.

She leaves. I look around me. I look at my hand. I look at her phone. And I dial _her_ number. It rings. Once, twice… My heart races in my chest. My breathing accelerates, trying to adjust to the need of extra blood my brain and muscles are compellingly demanding to be able to function. It feels like the ringing is endless. I reach the voicemail. Her voice… I take a sharp breath. I close my eyes until I hear the beep, inviting me to talk.

"[_breathe in – breathe out_] … Cuddy … I guess this is not the right moment… I … [_breathe in – breathe out_] never mind, I'm… just not the lucky guy, aren't I?… I … I hope you're ok … I just wanted to say… [_breathe in – breathe out_] Cuddy … I'm … I'm sorry …"

My voice choked on the last words. I can barely breathe. I hang up. I stare at my trembling hand, clutching the phone. My heart is about to explode under my ribcage.

What benefits do I get from that?

I look around me and the room spins a little. I bend over and put the cell phone back on the desk. Then I stand up. And I leave.

* * *

**A/N**

_Hi everyone!_

_the song for this chapter is **Radiohead - "Creep" **_( available on YouTube with this URL - just the end of it... : _.com/watch?v=POPv20dqoxs )_

_with this new chapter, comes along my very melancholic state of mind... tomorrow is the premiere and I can't be more excited than I am about it, but at the same time I'm wondering where and how I will find the strength to dare to write about Mayfield again once we'll all find out how it was for "real"..._

_in my head, the story still exists, it has a continuation... there are so many things and fieds I still want to explore..._

_I really need you to tell me if you think I should go on with this... giving you more to read would be a pleasure... I just need to know if you think it's worth it_

_as always, I'll be eagerly waiting for your thoughts_

_have a nice day ~ maya_


	8. The Closest Thing To Crazy

_Hi everyone! sorry for the long wait but my life has been crazy lately... I only got time to write today... so i did and now HERE'S THE NEW CHAPTER!_

_I hope you'll enjoy it :)_

* * *

**CHAPTER 7** – **Thursday, June, 4th – The Closest Thing to Crazy - [**_**If I go there, it has to be for a reason**_**.]**

"Hello."

"Hello, Yes?"

"Uh… Who is this?"

"Anna Miller."

"… _Anna Miller_?"

"Yes. And you are?"

"… I… uh… I'm Lisa Cuddy."

"Lisa Cuddy…" a faint smile flickers on the psychiatrist lips while she repeats the name of the woman at the other end of the line.

"Yes. _Doctor _Lisa Cuddy."

"Dr. Cuddy. Yes, I know who you are. I'm Dr. Anna Miller. Dr. House's psychiatrist."

"Oh! I see… Of course! I mean… Is everything ok with Dr. House?"

"Everything is _getting_ ok… Dr. Cuddy, do you have any specific concern regarding Dr. House's admission or … his medical license? Is that why you're calling me?"

"No…"

A heavy embarrassed silent ensues. On the other end of the line, sitting at her desk in her office, Cuddy is nervously biting her nails. When she finally overcame her doubts and decided to dial the number, she was ready to face any kind of scenario. House had left Mayfield and had called her with a phone he had managed to borrow from a random person; or he had coned some nurse into giving him a phone and God only knew what else. She was expecting anything. She was _waiting _for anything… anything but that. That, being someone else's voice answering the phone. Because even though she was still not ready to admit it to herself, the fact was that she dreadfully wanted to talk to _him_.

Three days. Three days had passed since he had left her that message. She had been listening to it over and over again, letting herself be rocked by the huskily low sound of his voice. His wobbling voice. When, on Monday's evening, she had dialed her voicemail's number to listen to her messages after another tiring day of work at the hospital, she was not prepared for that. Not prepared at all. And yet deep inside of her, she had secretly been wishing for that call. Since the day he had left, a part of her had been longing for a sign, anything, that would connect her with him again. But that didn't mean she was ready for it to happen. She was listening to the different messages she had received that day, updating her on medical cases, confirming meetings, cancelling appointments, rescheduling, calls from peers, informing her of new administrative procedures, from her nanny, reassuring her that everything was fine… She had sighed, her eyes closed and her mind elsewhere. That was her life: planning, assessing, organizing… She wasn't really tired, but she wasn't focused on what she was listening either. She knew all those messages too well. She was used to receiving dozens of them every day. And they were always the same. Always the same. Just with different dates.

And suddenly, in the middle of this, oh so familiar old tune, she had heard his voice. And it had felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs in one single puff. She had griped her phone inside her hand while the lump had tightened her throat. From the first syllable on, she had known it was him. No, actually she had recognized him from the very first sound of his breath inside the receiver.

"… _Cuddy … I guess this is not the right moment… I … never mind, I'm… just not the lucky guy, aren't I?… I … I hope you're ok … I just wanted to say… Cuddy … I'm … I'm sorry …"_

The beep announcing the end of the message had echoed inside her ear like a siren, shaking her out of her stupor. She had looked around her, lost and short of breath, not knowing where she was anymore. She had hung up and soon, driven by an almost unconscious reflex, she had dialed her voicemail again. To listen to it again, listen to _him_. Just one more time. Again. And again…

"Dr. House called you, didn't he?"

She slightly jumps in her chair, jolted out of her bittersweet reverie by Anna Miller's soft voice.

"What?"

"You're not calling to talk to _me_ Dr. Cuddy, are you?"

"I… well… actually, I…"

"Dr. House didn't steal my cell phone, if that's what you're wondering about. I gave it to him. Because he said he wanted to make a call."

"Oh!..."

"So I assume you're the person he called. Am I right?"

"… Well… Yes. He did. He called me to…"

"Dr. Cuddy. I'm not asking you to tell me what he said. He didn't make that call for my benefit."

"…"

Lisa Cuddy slowly sighs, and Anna Miller doesn't fail to notice the genuine relief that lies underneath that sigh. Another silence follows, during which Anna does nothing other than listen to the breathing of her interlocutor, echoing her own into the receiver.

"Dr Miller?"

"Yes."

"Will it be ok if I asked you some questions about Dr. House?"

"It depends. What do you want to know?"

"How's he doing?"

"He's… still adjusting."

"And detox? How did that go?"

"It was hard. Like detox is. But he's fine now. That really isn't the worst part, you know…"

"Yes, I know… I mean… I guess it isn't… but I assume I can't ask you about that part."

"No, indeed. At least, you can't ask _me_."

"What do you mean?"

"Dr. Cuddy. If you… feel the _need_ to talk to Dr. House…"

"No! That's fine. You told me everything I needed to know…"

"Are you sure?"

"…"

"That's your decision. I'm sure you know what you need better than anyone…"

Cuddy gasps, taken off guard by what has supposedly been said innocently but is surely also meant to trigger something in her. The subtle provoking double meaning of Anna Miller's remark didn't escape her attention. She's feeling fragile like never before, trying to live through a destabilizing period in her life, where she feels as if everything she's been relying on all those years is slowly falling apart around her, leaving her doubtful, unsure and above all confused as to acknowledging what her real desires are. For an uncalled-for disturbing brief moment, she feels a wave of emotions overwhelming her.

What does she want? What does she need? Does she at least know what it is? Is she ready to admit it? To herself? To that woman, who seems to have read right through her, digging in all the questions she has tried to repress since he's been gone?

She misses him, excruciatingly. Nothing can fill the void that his absence has left in her life. Nothing and _nobody_. Not even her sweet little baby girl. And that terrifies her, because she's certainly not prepared for that. No, she isn't. He's a bad curse, a dark shadow, a dangerous attraction. There is no doubt that he will consume her… But he is so compelling, so enthralling, so _intoxicating_ at the same time. What is she supposed to do? He takes her strength, her will, and her resistance away. She just can't fight it.

And anyway, does she really want to?

"I am busy… I'm sorry… I…" She finally says, opting for the coward retreat solution.

"You have to go. Of course."

That tone again, poking…

"Yes, I'm sorry."

"No, that's ok. You didn't disturb me at all… So, good bye then, Dr. Cuddy."

"Good bye."

"Have a nice day."

"Yes, thank you. You too."

Work. Yes. Pretenses and lies. Sweet lies. But she can't hide herself away forever. Maybe she was able to fool a stranger, and was she really? But she can't fool herself.

Not anymore.

# # #

"Uh? What are you doing here?"

She jerks on the chair when he enters the room and surprises her there.

"I could ask you the same question." She says, trying to regain her composure, despite her racing heartbeat inside her chest.

"I… I'm looking for Foreman."

"He and the rest of the team are in the lab."

She straightens up in _his _chair, looking Wilson straight in the eyes, waiting for him to leave the office. But he doesn't move and keeps standing right in front of her, scrutinizing her with a quizzical but fond gaze.

"I guess… I'm not really here to see Foreman after all." He finally admits, smiling at her.

"Oh…" She slowly bends over and casually puts the red and grey tennis ball back on his desk again.

"Sometimes, I just feel the need to come here and… I don't know…"

"Take a nap in his armchair?" Cuddy completes with her best attempt at sounding playful.

"I already have a couch… which, I don't use! I mean, I don't sleep in my office during the day!" He feels the need to defend himself, with a slightly embarrassed chuckle.

"I know. That's what _he_ does."

She sighs and leans back into his chair's backrest.

"And you? You didn't tell me why you're here…"

"Probably for the same reasons as you are..." She says in a very low voice.

Wilson slightly nods, while she looks away for a split second.

"I spoke to his psychiatrist this morning." She carries on, feeling the sudden surge of confiding in him to get rid of the awkwardness she's been feeling ever since.

"What? Something's wrong?" He asks, his voice immediately taking on a worried tone.

"No," she reassures him, "everything's fine… I guess."

Wilson sighs, relieved.

"Good. Because he seemed fine when I saw him last week."

"You saw him?" She asks, a little too much quickly.

"Yes. I visited him there."

"_Visited_?"

"He called to ask me to come."

"Oh! He called _you_…"

She lowers her eyes and strongly bites her bottom lip, mentally cursing herself for letting that simple and completely unsurprising fact affect her. Of course, he asked Wilson to come. What is _not_ normal in that? Wilson is his best friend. And House surely needed him to feel better. Wilson perceives the embarrassment, and even the slight jealousy in Cuddy's reaction and he takes a step forward to come closer to House's desk.

"Cuddy…" He starts, uneasy.

She promptly lifts her eyes to meet his gaze and commands him to stop with a silent glare. Then she places her hands flat on the desk and pulls herself up. She walks round the desk and heads towards the exit, without uttering a word. When she passes by him, Wilson gently but firmly grabs her arms, forcing her to stop. She does and looks up at him, feeling uncomfortable. He lets go of her arm, a sorry expression on his face.

"You have to be patient. I'm sure he will call you…"

"He already did," Cuddy says, rising her chin up a notch, assessing the look of surprise on Wilson's face, and silently despising herself for enjoying it. She suddenly feels guilty for taking advantage of the situation to feed her assertiveness on Wilson's visibly great puzzlement. "He left me a message, to be more precise…" She adds, baring herself a bit, with this little clarification.

Wilson stays silent. It's obvious he doesn't know what to say at this point.

"But he didn't ask me to come see him…" She carries on, her genuine disappointment showing within the tone of her voice.

She looks down at her feet and takes a deep breath.

"Wilson, I don't know what to do." She confesses out of the blue, almost whispering.

"Do you want to see him?"

"I don't know… Ok… Yes… maybe I do." She looks up again and dares sustain Wilson's gaze.

"Then why don't you go there? It's simple." He asks.

She sighs and her beautiful features take on an unsure look, finally allowing all her fragile most inner doubts to be displayed.

"Because… If I go there, it has to be for a reason… And I don't know if he wants me there… How am I supposed to know how he feels now that he's fine… now that he's probably changed…"

Wilson takes hold of her arm again, making her stop before she dives deeper into unnecessary confusion. He intensely stares at her, conveying his best convincing look through a compelling gaze, making sure she'll believe in what he is about to say.

"Lisa… House is slowly getting better, but there are things that won't change, whatever state of mind he's in. He's still going to be the same genius doctor he was before and…" Wilson's stare on her intensifies, as he slightly comes closer to her face. "You have to believe me, how he feels about you is not going to change either…"

"But I don't know how he feels…" She objects.

Wilson frowns disapprovingly, giving her a 'I'm not buying your crap' almost upset look.

"Cuddy, if there's one thing that you're surely not, it's stupid. So please, don't act stupid _now_…"

She bits her lips and looks away, not very proud of herself, and of her sudden childish call for reassurance.

"I'm not playing." She says, trying to defend herself.

"I know. That's exactly why I'm telling you this."

"But I don't know if it's worth it…" She murmurs, her emotions visibly struggling hard against her rational mind.

"I can't answer that question for you."

Their eyes meet again and the silence that suddenly fills the room carries all the unsaid confessions that she's still not ready to share yet within it.

"I have to go" Wilson says, checking the time on his watch. "I'm seeing a patient in ten minutes."

"Ok." She nods.

Wilson gives her a last supportive smile and walks out of the room.

# # #

Her car is parked outside the facility, in the grand alley, facing the main building. She walks towards it, numb, almost mechanically. When she arrives at the car's side, she grabs the knob to open the door and unconsciously, before bending to sit onto the driver's seat, she can't repress the need to turn around and give a last glance at Mayfield imposing structure. This place is huge. That's what she first thought when she arrived there, feeling so tiny and fragile in front of the gigantic walls that seemed to want to swallow her inside.

Inside, where _he _is.

She enters in her car and she searches for her key inside her purse. Her hand is slightly trembling as she reaches out for the starter. She slides the key inside and rests her hands on the steering wheel for a moment, while she inhales and exhales slowly, desperately trying to stop the growing wave from flowing out of her.

But it's pointless.

She closes her eyes and one single tear rolls down her cheek, and she gulps and grips the steering wheel tighter waiting until the tiny salty pearl dies somewhere inside her neck, where she won't have to wipe it away. How could she be so naïve? How could she think he would want her there? Of course he didn't. The people she met in there were absolutely definite: she's not allowed to see him because he didn't specifically mention her as a welcome visitor.

She is not welcome.

Not here. Not now. Not in his life. Not ever. Why would she keep clinging on to the delusional hope that she means anything to him? All this time, all those longing hours, all those agitated nights, thinking, wondering, torturing her mind, weighing the pros and cons, rationalizing. She was willing to give in, finally. She had come here because she had finally admitted that he was the only man she would ever want in her life. He and no one else. There was no point in struggling. For a long period of time, she had kept pushing him away, shutting down her heart and its most compelling feelings. She'd tried to fool herself into thinking that she wanted to find _happiness_ and that, since he would never give it to her, she couldn't let him be part of her life. But after many years and many battles against her wishes, her fears, her wants, she was finally seeing clearly. She didn't need to be _happy. _She was not living the life for that. But she could find a certain peace. She just needed to _not be miserable_. And she knew something for sure: Without him, she was. That's what she had come to tell him.

But they hadn't let her in, because her name was not on the list…

She opens her eyes and the grey massive building is still here, tantalizing her. And _he_ is still in there, unaware of her presence outside. Life is ironic. Life is pain. The tear has dried and she smiles, a shy bitter smile.

It aches. Like Hell. But while she stares at the psychiatric hospital, it becomes evident. She doesn't care if he doesn't want to see her now. He's right. It's the best choice for him. For her. And she will wait, until he comes out. Because she won't give up.

Because she knows what she needs better than anyone.

* * *

**A/N**

again, I'm so sorry for the delay... I know this is not an excuse but I have to travel a lot for my job and I haven't been home often lately... usually, even after a long day of work, I always write a little, sometimes even until 2 or 3 am but I've been feeling pretty exhausted because of my trips and I just couldn't find time or strength to write about that story...

but just know one thing: even if it takes me a little extra time to update, I have NO INTENTION whatsoever to give up on this story anytime soon... so there'll be other chapters...

now, about this one, I'm now eagerly waiting for your comments.

and of course, let's NOT FORGET the SONG FOR THE CHAPTER, which I recommend especially for the lyrics, which I find very in tune... but I also love the song itself

it's (hence the Chapter's title) **"The Closest Thing To Crazy" - by Katie Melua** (available on you tube under this link: .com/watch?v=JrHoj8fsSUY )

have a nice day ~ maya


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